THE   GARDEN 
OF  RESURRECTION 


BY  E.    TEMPLE    THURSTON 

THE  GARDEN  OF  RESURRECTION 

THE  GREATEST  WISH  IN  THE 
WORLD 

SALLY  BISHOP 

THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NON- 
SENSE 

THE  PATCHWORK  PAPERS 

THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

TRAFFIC 

THE  REALIST 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  KATHERINE 

MIRAGE 


THE  GARDEN 
OF  RESURRECTION 

BEING    THE  LOVE   STORT 
OF  AN   UGLT  MAN 

BY 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 


MITCHELL     KENNERLEY 

NEW  YORK 

1911 


COPYRIGHT    1911    BY    MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


TO 

W.  R.  DAKIN,  M.D. 


Mr  DEAR 

Partly  because  you  have  a  love  of  gardens,  partly 
because  together  we  have  seen  Ballysheen  when  the  gorse 
was  in  its  full  blast  of  yellow,  but  most  of  all  because  I 
feel  I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  a  great  friendship, 
I  am  asking  you  to  accept  this  book  of  mine.  It  was 
after  a  talk  with  you  one  night  that  I  went  straight 
home  and  wrote  Chapter  I  on  a  clean  sheet  of  paper, 
therefore  the  book  is  doubly  yours  and  I  ask  you  to  accept 
it  in  proof  of  the  fact  that,  not  only  am  I  grateful,  but 
also  that  I  am 

Tour  sincere  friend, 

E.  TEMPLE  TSURSTON. 
Adelphi, 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection 


CHAPTER    I 

IT  was  the  first,  the  very  first,  day  of  spring.  A 
man  walked  by  me  with  a  narcissus  in  his  coat  and  he 
was  humming  a  tune. 

By  the  looks  of  him  —  the  tail-coat,  the  bowler 
hat,  the  little  leather  hand-bag  —  he  was  an  artisan. 
You  know  that  game  of  placing  people.  I  put  him 
down  as  an  electrician.  He  had  been  attending  to 
a  job  up  West.  He  was  returning  to  the  premises  of 
his  firm  in  Bond  Street.  All  this,  of  course,  was  sur- 
mise. But  of  one  thing  I  was  certain.  He  had  no 
business  to  be  walking  through  the  Park.  He  ought 
to  have  been  on  a  'bus,  or  in  the  Underground  Rail- 
way, speeding  back  to  save  his  firm's  most  precious 
time,  ready  to  start  forth  once  more  upon  his  firm's 
most  urgent  errands.  Instead  of  this  —  it  was  the 
first  day  of  spring  —  he  was  walking  through  the 
Park  and  I  was  envying  him.  I  envied  the  narcissus 
in  his  coat.  Even  the  very  tune  he  was  humming 
touched  a  sense  of  covetousness  in  my  heart. 

"  Nor  his  ox,"  thought  I,  "  nor  his  ass,  nor  any- 
thing that  is  his."  A  very  stern  Commandment  that; 
for  even  as  I  took  off  my  silk  hat  and  brushed  the 


4  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

rim  of  it  once  with  my  sleeve,  I  envied  him  for  his 
tail-coat  and  his  billy-cock. 

It  was  little  enough  to  want  of  any  man,  his  tail- 
coat or  his  billy-cock,  his  narcissus  or  the  tune  set 
humming  from  his  heart.  I  did  not  want  his  leather 
bag  at  all.  He  could  keep  that.  Yet  it  seemed  that 
I  was  to  break  the  tenth  decree  of  Moses  to  its  last 
letter,  or,  since  I  was  going  backwards,  to  its  first; 
for  after  he  had  gone  by  some  thirty  yards  or  so,  I 
was  envying  him  for  something  else  altogether. 

A  few  moments  before  he  came,  a  little  nursemaid 
had  wheeled  her  pram  down  the  path  where  I  was 
sitting.  She  was  one  of  those  rosy-cheeked  creatures 
who  come  up  from  the  country  to  grow  pale  in  Lon- 
don, just  as  the  flowers  come  up  of  a  morning  to 
Covent  Garden  and  wither  perhaps  before  the  night 
is  out.  She  must  have  been  very  new  to  it  all,  for  she 
had  all  the  country  freshness  about  her  still.  Her 
cheeks  glowed  in  the  quick,  bright  air.  Her  hair 
blew  loosely  over  her  forehead  —  through  the  stray, 
fine  threads  of  it  her  eyes  danced,  glittering  with 
youth.  I  remember  now  of  what  it  must  have  re- 
minded me.  You  have  seen  those  spiders'  webs, 
caught  on  the  points  of  furze  which,  early  on  a  crisp 
May  morning,  glisten  with  drops  of  dew?  Those 
eyes  of  hers  through  her  hair  reminded  me  of  that. 
And  as  she  passed  me  by,  leaning  forward  again 
and  again  to  whisper  to  that  fat,  round  baby  in  the 
pram,  she  chanced  to  look  at  me. 

You  must  take  my  word  for  it  that  it  was  not 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  5 

from  any  thwarted  desire  to  draw  her  into  conver- 
sation that  the  expression  in  those  eyes  of  hers  chilled 
me.  I  have  never  had  the  courage  or,  which  again 
I  envy  so  much  in  others,  the  presence  of  mind  which 
brings  knowledge  to  a  man,  that  a  woman  would 
answer  if  he  addressed  her  in  the  street.  I  believe 
there  are  many  women,  the  most  virtuous  in  the 
world,  who  have  had  little  adventures  of  this  kind. 
God  knows,  life  would  be  dull  without  such  inter- 
ludes. But  as  yet  no  such  woman  has  come  my  way. 
It  were  better  put  if  I  said  that  I  have  never  come 
hers.  Therefore,  there  was  no  desire  on  my  part  to 
say  a  word  to  this  little  nursery  maid;  yet  the  swift 
look  in  her  eyes  made  a  thrill  of  coldness  quiver 
through  me.  That  a  woman  looks  her  disapproval 
of  you  can  be  borne.  But  it  is  hard  to  bear,  that 
look  in  a  woman's  eyes  which  sees  you  not  at  all; 
when  in  one  woman's  face  you  read  the  disapproval 
of  her  whole  sex. 

I  don't  know  why  it  should  have  struck  me  so 
strangely  that  morning,  for  I  am  used  to  it  by  now.  I 
have  known  it  so  long.  In  any  case,  it  is  not  a  thing 
to  talk  about.  You  have  it  there  in  that  nursery 
maid's  eyes.  I  am  an  ugly  devil,  not  even  with  that 
ugliness  which  pleads  a  charm  to  many  a  woman's 
heart.  I  am  an  ugly  devil,  and  that  is  all  there  is 
about  it.  The  only  creatures  who  have  ever  gazed 
at  me  as  though  I  were  the  image  of  God  were  my 
mother  and  my  dog.  The  one  is  dead.  I  have  only 
to  stretch  down  my  hand  from  my  chair  and  the  other 


6  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

will  gaze  at  me  in  such  fashion  now.  He  sat  upon 
a  chair  next  to  me  that  morning  and,  as  I  paid  his 
penny  to  the  collector,  he  gave  me  a  glance  from  his 
brown  eyes  which  I  chose  to  take  for  gratitude.  He 
thanked  me  —  why  not  ?  He  had  not  got  any  pennies 
with  him.  There  are  times  when  I  am  that  way 
myself. 

Now,  when  the  nursery  maid's  eyes  had  passed 
me  over,  they  looked  at  Dandy  and  her  whole  ex- 
pression changed.  I  caught  the  sign  of  friendliness, 
the  gentle  come-hitherly  glance  which  I  know  is  the 
first  step  in  those  little  adventures  leading  to  chance 
acquaintanceship.  For  that  look  he  would  have 
spoken  to  her  had  he  been  a  man  —  by  reason  of 
that  look,  had  he  been  a  man,  she  would  have  an- 
swered him.  As  it  was,  only  his  tail  wagged;  but  she 
did  not  see  that.  And  so  she  passed  on  while  Dandy 
and  I  sat  gazing  after  her. 

I  will  not  depart  into  reasons  as  to  why  I  called 
him  Dandy.  This  incident  alone  will  serve  to  tell 
you  why.  He  was  a  dandy  and  so  much  better-look- 
ing than  I,  wherefore  I  gave  him  that  name  —  an 
unnecessary  yet  unconscious  criticism  of  myself. 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  after  this  that  my  elec- 
trician strolled  by  and  I  began  to  envy  him.  Dandy 
and  I  both  turned  our  heads  to  watch  him  out  of 
sight,  and  then  it  was  that  I  coveted  most  of  all  those 
things  which  were  his.  For  this  was  what  happened. 
When  she  had  reached  the  end  of  the  path,  had  stood 
a  moment  to  watch  the  horses  as  they  turned  and 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  7 

started  their  canter  once  more  down  the  Row,  the 
little  nursery  maid  wheeled  round  her  pram  and  be- 
gan retracing  her  steps. 

"  Dandy,"  said  I,  and  his  eyes  shot  round  to  mine, 
"  they  're  going  to  meet." 

We  watched  them  closely  as  they  passed. 

"  I  wonder  how  she  looked  at  him,"  I  muttered. 
"  If  he  turns,  we  shall  see.  Will  he  turn?  Will  he 
turn?" 

Dandy's  tail  wagged,  and  he  turned. 

But  that  was  not  all;  for,  as  he  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  the  little  nursery  maid  whipped  round  as 
well,  and  in  the  electrician's  eyes  I  saw  a  smile. 
When  then  she  turned  her  head  about,  I  saw  a  smile 
there  too.  Twice  they  looked  back  over  their 
shoulders,  after  which  the  electrician's  steps  grew 
slow.  I  settled  myself  back  in  my  chair,  so  that 
they  should  not  guess  I  had  seen;  for  I  was  really 
interested  by  this.  The  premises  of  that  firm  in 
Bond  Street  were  getting  further  away  with  every 
step  he  took  in  their  direction.  Another  hesitating 
stride  or  two  and  they  had  vanished  out  of  sight 
altogether.  He  had  turned  and  was  coming  back. 

For  the  third  time  the  little  nursery  maid  looked 
over  her  shoulder.  Oh,  you  should  not  say  she  was 
leading  him  on.  Such  a  thought  as  that  never  enters 
a  woman's  head.  She  is  only  curious  to  see  what 
will  happen.  When,  for  instance,  as  in  such  a  case 
as  this,  a  woman  looks  back  at  you  when  you  have 
passed,  it  is  not  to  encourage  you  to  look  back  at 


8  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

her,  it  is  only  to  see  if  you  are.  But  no  woman  will 
ever  persuade  a  man  to  learn  that;  what  is  more, 
no  woman  would  ever  be  so  foolish  as  to  try.  It  is 
a  man's  mistaken  ideas  about  women  —  or  it  is  love, 
if  you  like  that  better  —  which  makes  the  world  go 
round. 

I  could  see  that  my  little  maid  had  not  the  faintest 
conception  of  what  would  have  been  the  result  of 
her  glances.  Any  one  might  have  seen  it,  for  directly 
she  understood  that  he  was  following,  a  great  leap- 
ing of  her  heart  quickened  her  steps  and  she  came 
past  me  once  more,  wheeling  the  pram  so  fast  that 
the  fat,  round  baby  jumped  and  jumped  again. 

And  all  this  sudden  increase  of  pace  was  in  order 
to  escape  him.  Not  for  one  moment  was  there  a 
desire  in  the  heart  of  her  to  be  caught.  Indeed,  in 
her  face  there  was  a  set  determination  that  she 
should  not  be  overtaken  —  and  certainly  not  oppo- 
site me. 

Now  whether  she  kept  up  this  pace  or  not,  I  am 
in  no  position  to  say.  The  movement  of  a  receding 
figure  —  I  speak  almost  in  terms  of  physical  laws  — 
is  well-nigh  impossible  to  estimate.  I  feel  sure,  how- 
ever, that  she  did.  The  only  means  therefore  by 
which  I  can  satisfactorily  justify  the  result  in  my 
mind  is  by  the  assumption  that  he  must  have  been 
walking  quicker  than  she.  Whichever  it  was,  he 
caught  her. 

He  had  forgotten  his  tune  as  he  came  by  me.  I 
think  it  was  quite  right  of  him.  When  life  is  hold- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  9 

ing  out  to  you  its  greatest  possibility,  that  is  no  time 
for  humming  a  tune.  Nevertheless,  he  did  his  best 
to  look  unconcerned.  He  pretended  he  had  for- 
gotten something  at  that  house  in  the  West  End.  In 
fact,  as  he  passed  me,  he  took  out  his  watch  and  dis- 
tinctly I  heard  him  say  —  "  Sch  1  Sch !  " 

"  Splendid  fellow,"  I  said  to  Dandy.  And  so  he 
was.  I  would  have  given  much  to  be  in  need  of  such 
little  deception  myself.  Some  one  else's  romance, 
however,  is  very  engrossing  when  it  happens  that 
you  have  none  of  your  own.  Dandy  and  I  followed 
him  secretly  with  our  eyes  as  he  sailed  down  the 
path  like  a  bold  man-o'-war  in  pursuit  of  his  capture. 
I  say,  secretly.  There  was  no  secrecy  about  Dandy. 
He  jumped  off  his  chair  and,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  path,  he  looked  directly  after  them.  At 
least,  I  think  it  was  after  them.  There  was  another 
dog  in  sight,  but  he  was  very  far  away. 

However  that  may  be,  we  were  not  permitted  to 
see  the  most  interesting  part  of  it.  She  was  quick 
and  she  was  cunning  in  her  manoeuvres,  was  that  little 
nursery  maid.  Before  I  could  have  contemplated 
the  action,  she  had  put  about  and  was  off  up  the 
path  which  turns  sharply  to  the  right  and  leads  into 
the  solitary  heart  of  the  Park.  That  pram  went 
round  that  corner  bumping  on  two  wheels.  I  saw  the 
fat,  round  baby  clinging  to  the  sides.  Then,  sure 
enough,  round  went  my  electrician  after  her  and, 
but  for  Dandy,  the  Park  seemed  empty  once  more. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  that's  all  there  is  to  that,"  and 


io  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  leant  back  again  with  disappointment  in  my  chair. 
There  was  no  such  thing  as  following  them.  It  was 
not  to  be  done.  Love  is  a  timid  thing  at  such  a  stage 
as  this,  and  I  would  not  have  frightened  it  for  the 
world.  I  will  confess  that  I  enjoyed  the  thought  that 
it  was  generous  of  me.  I  fancy,  moreover,  that  Prov- 
idence, who  superintends  all  these  matters,  thought 
so  too.  In  any  case,  she  gave  me  my  reward. 

It  was  a  good  hour  later.  Hundreds  of  men  and 
women  had  passed  by  in  that  time  for  me  to  look 
at  —  nearly  as  many  dogs  for  Dandy.  I  had  well- 
nigh  forgotten  my  electrician  when,  happening  to 
look  down  towards  that  sudden  corner,  I  saw  him 
hurry  round  it  and  make  to  come  past  me  once  more. 
I  smiled  in  gratitude  to  Providence,  but  my  reward 
was  not  full  even  then.  He  had  an  unlighted  ciga- 
rette in  his  mouth,  and,  seeing  me  once  more,  knowing 
I  was  a  friend  no  doubt,  he  stopped  and  asked  me 
for  a  match.  I  took  out  my  box. 

"  Did  you  find  what  you  wanted?  "  said  I,  as  he 
lit  his  cigarette. 

He  threw  away  the  match  and  looked  at  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he. 

"  'T  was  only,"  said  I,  "  that  you  passed  me  here 
about  an  hour  ago.  You  passed  me  twice.  First 
time  you  were  going  out  of  the  Park,  the  second 
time  you  came  back.  I  saw  you  look  at  your  watch. 
I  imagined  that  you  'd  left  some  instrument  at  the 
house  up  West  where  you  'd  been  working.  You 
were  evidently  annoyed  at  the  waste  of  time." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  1 1 

His  eyes  opened  in  some  sort  of  amazement. 

"  Very  quick  of  you  to  have  noticed  it,  sir." 

"  Well  —  not  very,"  I  replied.  "  I  sit  here  in  the 
Park  most  mornings  and  amuse  myself  that  way." 

He  gave  me  back  my  match-box. 

"  Well  —  that  was  just  about  it,"  he  said.  "  I  'd 
been  fixing  some  blinds  ready  for  the  summer." 

"  Blinds  for  the  summer,"  I  echoed,  "  there  's  a 
sound  about  that." 

He  smiled  broadly  as  he  thought  of  it. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  I,  "  you  Ve  lost  your  nar- 
cissus." He  looked  down  quickly  at  his  coat. 

"  Sch !  Sch !  "  he  said  again,  and  with  that  turned 
and  went  away.  I  think  he  was  beginning  to  mistrust 
me.  He  explained  as  he  left  me  that  he  was  in  a 
great  hurry.  I  have  no  doubt  he  was. 

Now  that  really  was  the  end  of  it,  and  for  that  I 
broke  the  very  first  letter  of  the  tenth  decree  of 
Moses.  For  that  lost  narcissus,  I  envied  him  most  of 
all.  But  when  I  say  that  I  confess  to  envying  him 
his  little  nursery  maid,  I  simply  mean  that  I  envy 
every  man  his  womenfolk,  and  the  mood  was  heavy 
on  me  that  morning.  This  little  incident  served  only 
to  make  it  the  heavier.  But  for  this  incident,  in  fact, 
I  might  never  have  taken  up  my  pen;  certain  it  is 
I  should  never  have  gone  forth  on  that  wild,  mad 
errand  which  is  to  become  the  subject  of  these  pages. 

Indeed,  nothing  less  than  this  had  happened  —  my 
electrician  and  his  nursery  maid  had  superinduced  a 
mood,  a  growing,  convincing  belief  that  it  was  not 


12  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

worth  while  going  on.  I  said  aloud  that  there  is 
nothing  more  lonely  in  this  world  than  a  lonely  man. 
I  made  the  remark  to  Dandy.  I  dared  not  tell  it 
solely  to  myself,  it  would  have  been  too  real. 

"  There  's  nothing  more  lonely,  Dandy,"  said  I, 
"  in  this  world  than  a  lonely  man." 

Dandy  stretched  out  a  paw  for  my  hand.  He 
kept  beating  the  air  until  he  got  it.  When  I  felt 
his  cold  little  pads  in  my  palm,  I  added  an  amend- 
ment—  "  Unless  it  be  a  dog  that  is  lost." 

Confident  then  that  in  that  short  statement  we  had 
compassed  the  woes  of  the  whole  world,  there  came 
a  momentary  relief.  It  did  not  last  for  long.  That 
vulture  of  a  mood  flapped  its  wings  again  and  settled 
down  once  more  to  feed  upon  our  minds.  Neither 
Dandy  nor  I  could  shake  him  off.  For  this  is  the  way 
with  dogs,  as  you  know  well  enough  who  have  one. 
They  are  partners  for  better  or  for  worse  in  the  little 
limited  company  of  hopes  and  fears  that  you  see  fit 
to  float  upon  the  world.  The  more  shares  are  taken 
up,  the  better  it  is  for  you,  the  more  going  a  concern 
it  will  be.  But  every  human  being  has  his  own  com- 
pany and  every  one  his  own  allotment.  By  which 
you  may  so  easily  understand  that  every  man  himself 
is  his  largest  shareholder.  Often,  indeed,  he  marries 
and  takes  a  partner;  but  even  she  has  floated  some 
little  company  of  her  own. 

Now  it  is  not  this  way  with  a  dog.  Take  a  dog  into 
partnership  and  he  halves  your  losses  and  your  profits 
to  the  last.  Little  deals  of  his  own,  little  specula- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  15 

tions  he  may  make  in  the  street  when  the  real  busi- 
ness of  the  day  is  done.  But  during  those  working 
hours  on  'Change  when  the  vital  affairs  of  life  are 
afoot,  there  is  he  by  the  side  of  you,  ready  to  laugh 
with  you  at  the  profits  of  your  hopes,  ready  to  de- 
spair with  you  at  the  losses  you  had  feared. 

Dandy  was  sharing  my  losses  with  me  that  morn- 
ing. So  fast  as  depression  set  in  upon  me,  so,  surely 
did  his  little  ears  droop  down,  his  head  hang  lower 
and  his  tail  fall  limp.  Why,  even  when  some  beau- 
tiful lady  smiled  at  him  as  she  passed,  he  turned 
away.  I  would  have  sworn  he  closed  his  eyes. 

"  My  God,"  said  I,  in  a  supreme  effort,  "  this  'II 
never  do,"  and  at  that  moment  came  my  doctor 
through  the  Park.  I  held  up  my  hand  in  salute.  It 
was  more  than  a  salute.  I  beckoned  him  to  stop  and 
speak  to  me.  He  got  down  from  his  car;  came 
across  and  sat  beside  me. 

"  Lazy,  lucky  devil,"  said  he. 

I  nodded  my  head.    All  men  call  me  that. 

"  Do  you  ever  give  consultations  in  a  place  like 
this?"  I  asked. 

He  would  have  made  me  a  professional  answer 
had  I  not  stopped  him. 

"  Talk  away,"  said  he,  and  I  talked. 

It  is  marvellous  how  subtle  and  how  eloquent  one 
can  be  over  the  description  of  one's  ills  when  there 
is  really  nothing  the  matter  at  all.  I  talked  for  ten 
minutes. 

"  It  comes  to  this,"  said  I,  in  conclusion,  "  every 


14  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

man  jack  of  us  is  over-civilized.  We  're  like  a  breed 
of  race-horses  that  has  outbred  the  strain  which  made 
it  famous.  We  're  over-bred." 

He  nodded. 

"  The  worst  of  consultation  in  a  place  like  this," 
said  he,  "  is  that  I  can't  look  at  your  tongue." 

I  don't  suppose  that  Dandy  heard  this.  In  any 
case  the  sun  was  burning  down  on  his  head.  Which- 
ever it  was,  a  broad  smile  wrinkled  his  face  and  his 
tongue  lolled  out.  I  pointed  to  him. 

"You  can  look  at  that,"  said  I;  "we  live  the 
same  sort  of  lives.  Nothing  the  matter  with  that, 
is  there?" 

"  Well  —  of  course  —  it 's  an  obvious  thing  to 
say,"  he  began. 

"  I  want  a  change?  " 

"  That 's  it.    A  complete  change  of  place." 

"  You  're  wrong,"  said  I.  "  I  want  a  complete 
change  of  time.  I  want  to  go  back  to  a  hundred 
years  ago." 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed,  "  better  still,  but  I  can't  advise 
you  how  to  get  there.  No  —  look  here  —  it's  not 
too  late.  Run  off  to  Italy  for  a  week  or  two  —  drop 
down  into  Sicily  —  take  your  time  over  it  —  get  out 
of  the  train  and  walk  if  you  like  —  and  don't  go 
alone." 

"  I  should  n't,"  said  I. 

"  You  know  of  some  one?  " 

I  looked  down  at  Dandy.    Dandy  looked  up  at  me. 

"  But  I  sha'n't  go,"  I  said.    "  You  have  n't  diag- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  15 

nosed  the  disease.     You  don't  seem  to  realize  the 
worst  symptom  of  it  all." 

"What's  that?  "he  asked. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  I  'm  an  ugly  devil,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER  II 

ITALY  was  no  good  to  me.  I  had  done  it  all  be- 
fore. There  are  not  many  corners  in  Europe  of 
which  Dandy  and  I  are  ignorant.  I  have  seen  his 
little  footmarks  in  the  snow  and  the  dust  in  places 
where  few  of  your  so-called  travelled  folk  have  ever 
been.  For  my  sake  he  has  cheerfully  suffered  quar- 
antine in  half  the  ports  of  the  south.  I  know  Odessa 
as  if  I  had  been  born  there,  waiting  for  Dandy's  re- 
lease. And  when  at  last  he  did  come  out,  a  mere 
shadow  of  what  he  was,  his  ribs,  a  scale  of  them, 
protruding  from  his  sides,  he  executed  so  violent  a 
war  dance  of  joy  as  exhausted  all  the  strength  left 
in  him.  In  two  minutes  he  was  lying  breathless  in 
my  arms. 

I  swore  to  him  it  should  never  happen  again.  "  A 
man  would  n't  put  up  with  it,  Dandy,"  said  I.  '  Why 
should  you?  " 

I  think  he  saw  the  force  of  it  all  at  the  time;  but 
when  a  few  months  of  good  feeding  had  gone  by 
and  I  was  for  setting  off  East  once  more,  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  Odessa. 

"  No,  you  're  not  coming  this  time,"  I  said  to  him. 
He  shook  his  tail  and  laughed.  He  did  n't  believe 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  17 

me.  "  Oh  —  that 's  all  very  well,"  I  went  on,  "  but 
remember  that  God-forsaken  spot,  Odessa."  If  you 
please,  he  laughed  again.  "  I  don't  care,"  said  I. 
"  You  're  not  coming.  Get  off  that  box,  it 's  going 
to  the  station." 

In  time  he  began  to  realize  it.  There  came  a 
gradual  dropping  about  his  ears.  He  found  his  coat- 
brush  in  the  corner  where  it  always  was.  His  leash 
was  still  hanging  in  the  hall.  I  could  see  him  think- 
ing it  out,  with  a  puzzled  frown  between  his  eyes 
as  if  he  were  saying  —  "  There  's  some  mistake.  He 
forgets  I  went  with  him  last  time  —  of  course,  there  's 
some  mistake  "  —  whereat,  half-convincing  himself 
that  there  was,  his  ears  pricked  up  and  he  began  his 
get-ready-to-go-out  dance,  a  wild  exhibition  of  terp- 
sichorean  art,  on  his  hind  legs. 

"  You  're  not  coming,  Dandy,"  said  I,  and  I  looked 
him  steadily  in  the  eyes.  At  last  he  knew,  and  I  had 
to  turn  away.  It  was  too  piteous,  the  expression 
then  that  twisted  his  face. 

.With  his  tail  a  limp  and  a  foolish-looking  thing, 
he  stood  upon  the  doorstep  and  saw  me  drive  off. 
I  waved  a  hand  out  of  the  window  at  him,  but  I 
could  not  look  back. 

It  was  that  wave  of  the  hand  that  did  it.  He 
knew  I  had  been  playing  him  a  joke.  There  I  was, 
beckoning  to  him  just  before  it  was  too  late  and, 
roaring  with  laughter  —  so  I  am  told  —  to  think  how 
nearly  I  had  taken  him  in,  he  leapt  after  me. 

When  I  got  out  of  the  taxi  at  Victoria,  to  my 


1 8  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

amazement,  there  he  was,  splashed  with  mud  behind 
our  wheels  from  nose  to  tail. 

"  A  jolly  good  joke!  "  he  roared.  "  A  jolly  good 
joke!  I  knew  there  must  have  been  some  mistake." 
And  so  there  was,  but  the  poor  little  devil  had  to  pay 
for  it  at  Algiers. 

What  good  then  was  Italy  to  us  after  such  journeys 
as  these  ?  We  walked  back  home  to  lunch  that  morn- 
ing, Dandy  forlorn,  I  with  the  taste  of  envy  still 
lingering  in  my  mind. 

How  can  I  explain?  Life  has  never  reached  me. 
No  woman  has  ever  come  to  me  in  trouble  —  and 
that  is  part  of  life;  no  man  has  ever  told  the  story 
of  a  love  affair  to  me  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
existence.  Whenever  a  man  sees  me  he  slaps  me  on 
the  back;  whenever  I  meet  a  woman  whom  I  know, 
she  pats  Dandy  on  the  back  instead.  And  to  suggest 
Italy  for  such  a  disease  as  that ! 

A  night  or  two  later,  I  strolled  into  a  restaurant 
where  occasionally  I  sup  alone.  The  young  man  and 
the  young  woman  go  there.  Corks  fly  out  of  bottles 
and  laughter  flies  after  them.  Sometimes  there  I 
can  imagine  I  have  never  seen  forty,  and  when  I 
assure  myself  that  I  am  forty-three,  it  seems  nothing 
—  nothing  at  all.  The  waters  of  Lethe  are  in  the 
very  finger-bowls  on  their  tables,  though  often  in- 
deed, as  I  have  rubbed  it  on  my  lips,  it  seems  I  have 
tasted  the  waters  of  Marah.  That  night  after 
supper,  I  sat  in  the  lounge  outside,  taking  my  coffee. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  settee  I  had  chosen  sat  a 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  19 

woman  of  twenty-eight,  listening  patiently  to  the 
egotism  of  a  boy  of  twenty-six.  Here  and  there  she 
placed  a  word  with  cunning  knowledge  of  his  kind. 
Now  and  again  she  laughed,  when  immediately  rose 
his  empty  bark  above  it.  At  times  he  laughed  all  by 
himself. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  marry  her  one  of  these 
days  and  settle  down,"  I  heard  him  say,  and  from 
that  moment  my  ears  caught  no  sound  other  than 
their  two  voices;  his  in  limping,  stilted  narrative, 
hers  in  encouraging  assent. 

It  was  a  story  no  man  has  the  right  to  tell.  Told 
to  a  woman,  it  set  the  blood  racing  in  my  veins  till 
it  tingled  hot  and  furious  in  my  very  fingers.  It 
seemed  he  had  been  to  the  West  Indies,  trading  in 
what  I  don't  know  and  care  less.  And  there,  no 
doubt,  with  what  we  call  the  superiority  of  our 
European  civilization,  he  had  captured  the  affections 
of  a  planter's  daughter. 

I  caught  her  name,  just  her  Christian  name,  as 
he  disclosed  it.  Clarissa  —  only  Clarissa  —  I  heard 
no  more.  He  was  one  of  those  youths  who  must 
give  you  names  to  make  his  story  true.  And  how 
Clarissa  loved  him !  Behind  all  his  boasting  and 
that  barking  laugh  of  his,  I  could  see  how  well  she 
loved  him  too.  Could  it  have  been  anything  but  love 
that  had  brought  her  from  her  sunny  islands  to  that 
grey  land  of  Ireland  where  he  had  taken  her? 

I  thought  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  exiled  from  her 
golden  France  to  those  dim  mists  of  Scotland,  the 


2O  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

greatest  tragedy  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Only  the 
need  of  history  to  make  this  as  great  a  tragedy  as 
well. 

In  the  care  of  his  two  aunts  he  had  placed  her. 

"  And  there  she  '11  have  to  stay  for  some  time. 
She  wants  educating,"  said  he,  and  forthwith  he 
proceeded  to  recount  her  little  ignorances,  her  little 
follies,  her  little  mistakes,  at  each  of  which  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"She  knows  nothing,"  he  continued;  "not  that 
I  think  a  woman  ought  to  know  much.  But  she 
knows  absolutely  nothing.  I  had  thoughts  of  her 
coming  over  here  to  school.  But  she  's  too  old  for 
that;  besides,  she  's  nicely  tucked  away  there  in  Bally- 
sheen." 

The  name  struck  quickly  on  my  ears.  Ballysheen? 
Why  was  it  familiar?  One  of  those  tricks  of  sense, 
perhaps.  You  know  an  Irish  name  anywhere.  But 
I  had  no  inclination  then  to  follow  it  out.  I  beckoned 
my  waiter  for  another  Kiimmel.  My  empty  glass 
betokened  idleness.  I  could  see  the  woman's  eyes 
wandering  in  my  direction.  The  man  would  never 
have  suspected  me  of  listening,  for  when  a  man  tells 
a  story,  the  sound  of  it  absorbs  him.  Women,  I  find, 
are  different  to  that.  They  are  ever  aware  of  the 
thousand  things  about  them. 

"How  is  she  going  to  be  taught?"  she  asked 
when  her  suspicions  were  allayed  by  the  filling  of 
my  glass. 

He  inhaled  deeply  of  his  cigarette  and  slowly  blew 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  21 

out  the  smoke  between  pursed  lips.  "  Oh — they  '11 
teach  her,"  said  he. 

And  they  —  were  his  two  maiden  aunts.  From  his 
ill-phrased  description  of  them,  I  could  see  it  all. 
He  had  caught  a  bird  of  brilliant  plumage  in  the 
wild  heart  of  a  tropic  forest,  and  to  a  cage  one  foot 
by  three  he  had  brought  her;  a  cage  hung  in  some 
dull  drab  room,  where  never  the  light  of  the  sun  could 
enter.  Behind  the  bars  of  their  little  bigotries  and 
their  little  prejudices,  this  poor  untamed  creature 
was  beating  her  tired  wings,  or  she  was  sitting  there 
waiting  with  watching  eyes  for  him  to  return  and 
marry  her. 

It  was  not  the  manner  of  his  telling  that  made 
the  story  real.  It  was  the  place.  That  glare  of 
lights,  those  sinuous  sounds  of  music  that  crept  upon 
one's  ears,  all  the  blatant  artificiality  of  it,  and  this 
casual  narrative  told  with  a  laugh  and  a  glass  to 
the  lips !  You  hear  strange  conversations  in  public 
places ;  but  I  had  never  heard  anything  more  strange 
than  this. 

Her  father  was  wealthy,  so  it  seemed.  It  was  this 
that  had  attracted  him  to  the  match. 

"  She  '11  have  ten  thousand,  when  we  marry,"  he 
continued;  "worth  thinking  about,  you  know.  And 
more  when  her  father  dies.  But  there  's  one  ghastly 
drawback.  I  got  used  to  it  over  there;  but  since 
I  Ve  been  back  in  England  —  talking,  for  instance, 
to  women  like  yourself  —  I  sometimes  wonder  how 
the  devil  I  'm  going  to  do  it." 


22  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  held  my  breath  and  strained  my  ears  to  listen.  It 
is  when  you  know  what  is  coming  that  you  are  keenest 
of  all  to  hear. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she's  black?  "  said  his 
companion,  in  horror. 

Back  went  his  head  and  he  laughed  right  down  my 
spine. 

"  Good  Lord !  No !  You  don't  think  any  amount 
of  money  would  tempt  me  to  marry  a  black,  do  you? 
I  hate  that  sort  of  thing  as  much  as  anybody.  No, 
she  's  beautiful  enough,  but  she  's  colored.  There  's 
the  strain  in  her.  Three  generations  back  there  was 
a  black  in  the  family.  In  most  of  them  it 's  worn 
itself  all  out  completely,  but  she  's  a  set  back.  You 
can  see  it.  Her  hair  's  as  black  as  pitch.  Not  a  mat, 
thank  God;  it 's  fine  enough.  Her  skin  's  quite  olive, 
too.  The  whites  of  her  eyes  are  that  blue-white 
of  old  china.  She  's  got  the  taste,  too,  for  gaudy 
colored  things.  Wanted  to  dress  herself  in  canary- 
colored  satin  when  she  first  came  to  Ballysheen.  My 
aunts  soon  put  a  stop  to  that.  Oh,  I  Ve  no  doubt 
they  '11  teach  her  in  time." 

I  think  just  that  touch  made  me  see  it  most  of  all. 
The  little  creature  putting  on  her  bright  plumage, 
the  very  colors  which  Nature  gives  to  those  whose 
home  is  in  the  sun,  and  then  to  have  them  stripped 
from  her,  and  in  their  place  the  dull  religious  black 
of  these  grey  countries  given  her  to  wear.  Oh,  no 
doubt,  they  would  teach  her  quickly  enough,  those 
two  old  maiden  aunts  of  his.  Her  school-room  roof 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  23 

would  be  the  lightless  skies  of  grey  —  one  quickly 
learns  a  lesson  of  obedience,  the  obedience  of  despair, 
in  such  a  room  as  that.  Ready  to  their  hands  would 
be  all  the  forms  of  chastisement  that  can  so  soon 
break  down  a  spirit  from  the  sun.  Just  that  canary- 
colored  satin  made  me  see  it  most  of  all. 

And  what  did  his  aunts  think  of  it  all,  I  wondered. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  wondered  aloud,  for  his  com- 
panion echoed  the  question  to  my  thought. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  beckoned  lazily  for 
his  bill.  "  Can't  help  what  they  think,"  said  he. 
"  Matter  of  fact,  I  don't  believe  they  like  it  at  all. 
We  're  an  old  family,  you  see.  The  Fennells  have 
been  in  Ireland  since  Cromwell.  He  gave  us  our 
estates,  every  inch  of  which  has  gone.  The  only 
property  left  is  the  old  house  my  aunts  live  in. 
They  '11  be  glad  enough  if  I  get  a  rich  wife.  For  that 
reason  I  suppose  they  put  up  with  her;  but  it  goes 
against  the  grain.  In  Ireland,  you  know,  a  drop  of 
black  blood  is  the  greatest  curse  you  can  have.  They 
won't  let  any  one  get  a  glimpse  of  her.  I  can  tell 
you,  it 's  a  mystery  over  there.  Everybody  knows 
there  's  some  one  staying  in  the  house  —  but  they 
won't  let  her  be  seen.  Rather  rough  on  her,  you 
know.  They  take  her  out  for  walks  when  it 's  dark 
—  make  her  put  a  veil  over  her  face.  You  would  n't 
believe  it  in  a  cosmopolitan  place  like  London;  but 
it  makes  all  the  difference  over  there." 

I  heard  no  more  than  that.  I  could  wait  to  hear 
no  more. 


24  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  My  things,"  said  I  to  the  attendant.  He  wanted 
to  pull  down  the  collar  beneath  my  coat.  I  could  not 
have  borne  that.  It  was  a  matter  of  walking  home 
to  Mount  Street.  There  are  times  when  the  more 
civilized  methods  of  progression  have  no  meaning 
at  all.  There  are  times  when  one  must  return  to 
Nature  and  use  one's  legs.  I  walked  home,  and  all 
the  time  there  sang  in  my  head  that  phrase  —  no 
woman  has  ever  come  to  me  in  trouble. 

"  My  God,"  thought  I.  "  If  ever  there  was  a 
woman  in  trouble !  " 

And  then  the  name  Clarissa  —  Clarissa  —  called 
itself  back  into  my  mind.  Clarissa,  with  her  little 
gown  of  canary-colored  satin. 


CHAPTER  III 

THEY  can  be  cold,  those  nights  in  April,  for  spring 
comes  timidly  to  this  little  island  of  ours.  I  have 
seen  children,  like  her,  peep  round  a  door.  There 
is  laughter  in  their  faces;  it  flows  in  a  silver  ripple, 
quivering  shyly  on  their  lips.  For  one  instant  they 
look  in  on  you  and  then  are  gone.  It  is  no  good 
your  calling.  Nothing  under  Heaven  will  induce 
them  to  come  back.  Perhaps  the  next  morning  at 
the  very  same  hour  the  door  will  open  gently,  you 
will  see  the  sudden  flash  of  eager  eyes,  but  never 
again  that  day.  It  were  as  well  you  gave  up  hope 
of  it.  And  so  comes  spring  in  such  fashion  to  us 
here. 

That  very  morning  I  had  been  sitting  again  in  the 
Park.  The  sun  was  of  pure  white  silver  in  a  sky 
of  blue.  There  was  that  cool,  faint  sense  of  chill 
about  it,  too,  as  when  you  see  the  flame  of  candles 
freshly  lit.  The  daffodils  under  the  trees  lifted  high 
their  yellow  petals  from  the  grass  to  try  and  touch 
the  warmth  of  it.  Yet  it  only  lasted  for  an  hour  or 
two.  I  looked  down  at  Dandy  as  a  grey  cloud  sailed 
up  above  the  trees  and  hid  the  sun,  and  I  saw  a 
little  wrinkle  quiver  swiftly  up  his  back. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  I,  "  I  Ve  no  doubt  you  'd 


26  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

like  Nature  to  spoil  you.  We  all  do;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, she  won't." 

I  am  always  making  these  little  reflections  aloud 
to  Dandy.  It  is  not  that  he  understands,  but  they  do 
such  a  heap  of  good  to  me. 

By  night  time  that  grey  cloud  had  drawn  a  score  of 
others  after  it.  When  I  came  out  of  the  restaurant 
after  supper  the  wind  was  scouring  the  streets  with 
a  shower  of  rain.  As  I  walked  home  I  thought  with 
gratitude  of  the  fire  that  I  knew  was  burning  in  my 
room.  My  steps  quickened  as  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  sight  of  Dandy  lying  curled  in  a  complete  circle 
upon  the  hearthrug.  What  manner  of  person,  I 
wondered,  would  rise  to  his  feet  from  such  a  comfort- 
able position  as  that  and  greet  you  rapturously  upon 
your  entrance,  put  his  hands  on  your  wet  coat  and 
say  between  cavernous  yawns  and  jovial  laughter 
how  jolly  glad  he  was  to  have  you  back  again?  Per- 
haps there  was  one  in  the  world  who  would  have 
greeted  a  man  like  that. 

Clarissa. 

Ah,  but  there  would  be  more  than  laughter,  there 
would  be  those  uncontrollable  tears  of  gratitude  if 
Clarissa's  lover  came  back  to  her  that  night.  Perhaps 
she  had  not  even  a  fire  by  which  to  curl  herself  into 
the  complete  circle  of  contentment.  No  doubt  at 
such  an  hour  as  that  she  was  fast  asleep  in  her  tiny 
bed  —  or  was  she  lying  awake  with  eyes  set  deep  into 
the  darkness,  listening  to  the  ceaseless  driving  of  the 
rain  upon  her  window?  Wherever  she  was,  what- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  27 

ever  doing,  I  could  see  the  joy,  lit  radiant  in  her  face, 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

Then,  when  I  thought  of  his  return,  I  thought  as 
well  of  him.  The  sudden  picture  of  his  face  came 
straight  into  my  eyes.  I  heard  his  voice.  I  heard 
his  laughter.  My  God!  thought  I,  what  hopeless- 
ness to  wait  for  such  a  man  as  that !  Surely  she  knew 
the  worthless  kind  he  was?  No,  it  was  more  likely 
she  did  not.  So  few,  few  women  do. 

"  But  what  law  of  God  or  Nature  is  it,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "  that  makes  men  treat  women  so?  "  Had 
there  been  an  answer  which  left  one  shred  of  dignity 
to  my  back,  I  might  have  made  it.  So  far  as  I  could 
see  there  was  none.  "  Unless,"  I  thought,  "  unless 
it  is  she  asks  no  better  of  us  and  gets  but  little  more." 

The  words  had  scarcely  entered  my  mind  when  I 
was  contradicted  flatly  to  my  face.  From  a  door- 
way as  I  passed  I  heard  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Here,  I  say." 

I  stopped,  peering  into  the  shadow.  A  girl  was 
there,  sheltering  beneath  the  overhanging  portal  of 
the  door. 

"What  is  it?  "I  asked. 

Perhaps  the  tone  of  genuine  inquiry  in  my  voice, 
no  doubt  a  thousand  other  things  as  well,  checked 
her  in  what  she  was  going  to  say,  for  she  caught  the 
words  and  shut  her  lips  upon  them. 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  asked  again. 

She  screwed  up  her  face  into  a  smile;  no  doubt  to 
hide  the  injured  dignity  in  her  heart. 


28  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Would  you  like  to  give  me  my  cab  fare  home?  " 
said  she. 

Now  had  I  received  a  blow  of  her  hand  across 
my  face  I  should  not  have  felt  more  surprise.  It  was 
so  direct  an  answer  to  my  assumption,  to  the  very 
question  I  had  put  myself  but  a  few  steps  back.  I 
had  assumed  that  women  received  the  worst  from 
us  because  they  asked  no  better.  Yet  what  better 
can  a  woman  ask  of  any  man  than  charity? 

In  some  awkward  effort  to  explain  I  have  said 
that  life  has  never  reached  me  —  no  woman  has  ever 
come  to  me  in  trouble.  But  it  is  more  than  that  — 
and  it  is  less.  I  have  often  wanted  a  woman  to  say 
to  me,  "  Come  and  buy  me  a  hat."  No  woman  ever 
has.  I  have  known  women  whom  I  would  like  to 
have  adorned  from  the  top  of  their  dainty  heads  to 
the  soles  of  their  elegant  feet;  but  either  it  is  that 
they  have  husbands  who  do  it  for  them  or  there  is 
some  ridiculous  etiquette  which  forbids  it.  It  seems 
I  am  one  of  those  men  of  whom  a  woman  asks  noth- 
ing, another  symptom  of  the  disease  which  I  forgot 
to  tell  my  doctor. 

You  may  imagine,  then,  what  I  felt  when  this 
girl  came  out  of  nowhere  and  asked  me  to  pay  her 
cab  fare  home.  My  hand  went  straight  to  my  pocket. 
She  might  have  asked  so  many  things  other  than  that. 
She  might  have  asked  for  a  new  hat.  Her  own  was 
sodden  with  rain. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  cab  fare?  "  said  I.  "  Where 
do  you  live?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  29 

I  said  it  all  in  the  voice  of  one  who  is  in  two  ways 
about  what  he  is  doing.  You  see,  I  had  to  make 
something  to  my  credit  out  of  the  business.  She 
had  asked  for  so  very  little.  Even  when  she  told 
me  it  was  Bloomsbury  way,  I  felt  a  sense  of  disap- 
pointment. It  might  as  well  have  been  Highgate  or 
Clapham  Junction.  But  in  this  world,  whether  or  not 
it  be  true  that  you  want  little,  little  it  is  most  surely 
that  you  get.  How  long  you  get  it  for  is  another 
matter.  It  did  not  interest  me  then. 

I  looked  up  and  down  the  street. 

'  You  won't  find  the  fare  so  difficult  to  get  as 
the  cab,"  said  I.  The  whole  street  was  empty.  She 
peered  out  of  the  shadow,  and  I  could  see  she  must 
be  wet  to  the  skin. 

"  Look  here,"  I  continued,  "  come  under  this  um- 
brella. I  live  just  here.  You  'd  better  sit  indoors 
while  I  get  them  to  whistle  for  a  '  taxi.' ' 

She  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  and  stared  at 
me.  A  foolish  thing  to  do.  Women  behave  ridicu- 
lously at  times.  It  was  the  only  obvious  thing  to  sug- 
gest, and  yet  she  gazed  at  me  as  though  I  could  not 
possibly  be  aware  of  what  I  was  saying.  I  was 
aware. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  come  under  this  umbrella," 
I  repeated,  severely.  Then  she  obeyed. 

As  we  walked  along  in  silence  to  my  door,  I  began 
to  see  myself  that  there  were  two  aspects  to  the  case. 
I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  my  man.  He  would 
be  waiting  up  for  me.  He  always  does.  There  are 


30  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

little  things,  and  Moxon  knows  how  to  do  them.  I 
have  come  to  believe  he  likes  it.  But  would  he  like 
this? 

"  Oh,  Moxon  be  damned,"  said  I,  and,  of  course, 
I  must  have  said  it  out  loud,  for  she  asked  me  sympa- 
thetically who  Moxon  was. 

"  He  looks  after  me,"  I  replied. 

I  think  that  must  have  almost  confirmed  the  opinion 
in  her  that  I  was  not  quite  sane ;  that  Moxon,  indeed, 
was  my  keeper,  for  she  drew  away  a  little  till  I 
laughed  and  explained. 

"You're  a  swell,  then?"  she  said.  She  said  it 
with  conviction.  She  said  it  as  a  question  too. 

"  If  you  '11  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said 
I,  "  I  '11  tell  you  if  you  're  right." 

Whereupon  for  a  few  moments  she  was  silent, 
but  when  I  prompted  her  for  an  answer,  she  said, 

"  A  swell 's  a  swell." 

"  Then  certainly  the  description  does  n't  apply 
to  me,"  I  replied,  and,  taking  out  the  latchkey,  I 
opened  my  door. 

At  first  she  hesitated  to  come  in,  but  I  took  her 
arm.  The  sleeve  of  her  dress  was  drenched. 

"  You  must  n't  stay  outside,"  said  I.  "  Just  come 
and  wait  in  my  sitting-room  while  Moxon  gets  a 
'  taxi.'  He  won't  be  long." 

The  moment  I  opened  the  door,  there,  sure 
enough,  was  Dandy  to  his  feet,  but  at  the  sight  of 
my  visitor  he  arrested  all  motion  and  glared.  At  this 
time  of  night  I  was  his  personal  belonging.  He  had 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  31 

me  to  himself.  There  was  no  doubt  he  resented  this 
intrusion  of  another  person,  and  when  he  realized 
it  was  a  woman,  his  contempt  was  wonderful.  With 
just  a  glance  at  me,  he  turned  round  and  stared 
into  the  fire.  I  never  saw  reproach  so  clearly  drawn 
in  the  outline  of  a  dog's  back  before. 

"  This  is  just  a  foretaste,"  thought  I,  "  of  what 
we  shall  get  from  Moxon,"  and  I  rang  the  bell. 

When  I  turned  round,  she  was  looking  all  about 
the  room  with  a  silent  wonder  in  her  eyes.  It  is 
comfortable,  I  know.  I  have  been  told  that.  But 
no  one  has  ever  surveyed  it  with  such  an  expression 
in  their  eyes  as  she  had  then.  I  felt  almost  ashamed 
of  myself  for  calling  it  my  own;  for  in  that  look  I 
seemed  to  see  all  the  dull,  cheap  finery  of  her  own 
squalid  little  rooms  in  Bloomsbury. 

"  The  world  is  hard  on  women,"  I  said  to  myself, 
and  again  the  name  of  Clarissa  came  like  an  echo 
into  my  thoughts.  Clarissa  in  her  little  gown  of 
canary-colored  satin. 

I  was  just  going  to  ask  her  more  about  herself 
when  she  forestalled  me. 

"  Do  you  live  here  alone?  "  she  asked. 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  All  this  to  yourself?" 

I  nodded  again. 

"Aren't  you  lonely?" 

I  felt  quite  grateful  for  Moxon's  entrance.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  the  look  of  astonishment  that 
leapt  into  his  face  was  ludicrous  to  behold. 


32  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  rang,"  said  I.  "  I  want  you  to  whistle  for  a 
*  taxi '  for  this  lady.  She  's  been  caught  in  the  rain 
outside." 

He  went  out  obediently,  closing  the  door.  Another 
moment  and  we  heard  his  whistle  blowing  violently 
in  the  street. 

"  Is  that  Moxon?  "  she  asked,  when  he  had  gone. 

11  It  is." 

"  What 's  he  think  of  you  bringing  me  in  here?  " 

"  I  should  n't  attempt  to  say,"  said  I.  "  Moxon  's 
mind  is  one  of  the  riddles  I  shall  never  solve.  Some- 
times I  feel  inclined  to  believe  that  he  never  thinks 
at  all." 

She  sat  silent  for  a  moment  or  two  staring  at  the 
fire,  and  then  suddenly  looked  up  quickly  at  me. 

"  Why  did  you  bring  me  in  here?  "  she  asked. 

It  came  to  my  lips  to  give  some  irrelevant  answer. 
Why  should  I  tell  her?  Would  she  understand  it 
if  I  did?  But  then  there  flashed  across  my  mind 
the  belief  I  always  hold  that  above  all  creatures 
women  are  gifted  with  understanding,  and  I  told  her 
of  the  story  I  had  just  heard. 

"  And  what 's  that  to  do  with  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied,  "  and  everything.  One 
woman  in  trouble  is  the  whole  world  of  women  in 
distress.  What  I  have  to  complain  of  is  that  they 
never  come  to  me.  You  did.  That 's  why  I  brought 
you  in  here.  If  this  child  in  Ireland  were  to  appeal 
to  me  —  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  33 

"How  can  she?" 

"  That 's  true,"  said  I,  "  she  does  n't  know  me." 

She  looked  at  me  queerly  —  deedily  is  the  word  — 
and,  almost  in  a  whisper,  she  asked,  "  Why  don't 
you  go  to  her?  " 

I  leant  back  in  my  chair  and  laughed. 

"What,  become  a  Don  Quixote!  "  said  I.  "  Go 
out  and  tilt  at  windmills,  try  to  pose  knight-errant  to  a 
child  who  's  lost  her  heart  to  some  one  else !  What 's 
the  good  of  saving  any  woman  from  her  own  in- 
fatuation? She  '11  only  hate  you  for  it." 

She  looked  me  strangely  in  the  face. 

"  She  '11  thank  you  for  it  one  day,"  she  said,  and 
there  were  whole  years  of  terror  in  her  voice. 

Suddenly,  then,  I  saw  things  different,  and  at  that 
moment  came  Moxon  into  the  room. 

"  The  '  taxi '  for  the  lady,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  IV 

NOT  only  has  Moxon  his  ideas  about  me;  he  has 
also  his  ideas  about  women. 

"  They  're  a  strange  lot  of  people,"  he  said  once  to 
me,  meaning  women,  but  as  if  they  were  all  huddled 
together  in  waiting  down  in  the  hall. 

"  By  which  you  mean?  "  said  I. 

"  By  which  I  mean,  sir,  that  my  sister  Amy  has 
thrown  off  the  man  she  was  engaged  to  and  has  taken 
to  religion." 

That  was  not  telling  me  much  what  he  meant.  I 
doubt  if  he  really  knew  himself.  In  all  probability 
it  was  that  he  had  come  violently  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about  them,  in  which 
case  a  man  will  speak  knowingly  of  women  in  non- 
committal terms. 

In  the  same  diplomatic  way,  I  knew  he  must  be 
thinking  a  great  deal  with  every  blast  of  that  whistle 
out  in  the  street,  and  doubtless  in  the  same  diplomatic 
way,  he  would  express  it  later. 

I  returned  therefore  with  a  certain  amount  of 
expectancy  to  my  room  as  soon  as  the  "  taxi  "  had 
driven  off  and  that  poor  little  creature  had  vanished 
away  into  the  grey  heart  of  her  world  in  Bloomsbury. 
There  was  that  which  I  had  slipped  into  her  purse 
which  might  pay  for  the  fare  and  perhaps  a  hat  as 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  35 

well.  God  knows  what  hats  cost,  for  I  do  not. 
Wherefore,  when  I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  I 
left  it  to  God  to  suggest  the  amount. 

And  then,  as  I  say,  I  returned,  with  a  deal  of  ex- 
pectancy in  my  mind.  Moxon  was  putting  out  my 
slippers  with  Dandy  looking  on  —  Dandy  assuring 
him,  with  expressions  of  contempt  for  his  intelligence, 
that  it  was  not  a  bit  of  good. 

'  There  's  some  one  with  him,"  sniffed  Dandy. 
'  We  shall  have  to  sit  up  till  they  go,"  and  he  looked 
back  again  into  the  fire. 

I  remained  there  for  a  moment  watching  him, 
really  waiting  to  hear  what  Moxon  had  to  say.  He 
stood  up  then,  and  as  he  said  it,  upon  my  soul,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  never  had  such  re- 
spect for  diplomacy  before. 

"  Is  there  anything  more,  sir?  "  he  asked,  and  had 
there  been  a  conscience  to  prick  me,  I  swear  to 
Heaven  I  should  have  begged  his  pardon  for  having 
asked  so  much.  As  it  was,  I  smiled  serenely  when 
I  looked  back  into  his  face. 

"No  —  I  think  that 's  enough,"  said  I. 

And  when  he  replied,  "  Yes,  sir,"  it  was  intended 
to  convey  that  he  entirely  agreed  with  me. 

I  let  him  get  to  the  door  and  there  he  stopped, 
looking  round  the  room  once  more,  to  see  if  I  had 
forgotten  anything  on  my  own  account;  then  as  he 
was  departing,  I  called  him  back.  It  might  have 
been  enough  for  him;  it  was  a  gross  misrepresenta- 
tion to  say  that  it  was  enough  for  me. 


36  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Moxon,"  I  began,  "  that 
you  wouldn't  help  a  woman  if  she  was  in  trouble?  " 

"  I  was  not  aware,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  that  I  had 
said  anything  about  any  woman." 

I  had  to  swallow  that  as  best  I  could  and  begin 
again  on  a  fresh  score. 

"  Well,"  I  continued,  "  if  a  woman  had  asked  you 
to  give  her  her  cab  fare  home  —  a  woman  drenched 
to  the  skin,  sheltering  in  a  doorway,  shivering  in  the 
cold  at  one  o'clock  at  night  —  what  would  you  do?  " 

"  Naturally  —  if  you  put  it  that  way,  sir  —  but 
it 's  against  my  principles,  and,  what 's  more,  I  'm 
never  out  at  one  o'clock  at  night,  I  make  a  point  of 
being  in  by  half-past  eleven." 

This  was  too  evasive  for  me.  So  far  as  his  prin- 
ciples are  concerned,  I  know  all  about  them.  A  man 
who  supports  his  mother  and  two  sisters  out  of  his 
earnings  has  every  right  to  talk  about  it  being  against 
his  principles  to  help  a  woman  in  distress;  but  there 
is  no  special  call  upon  one  to  believe  him.  I  fancy 
myself  that  when,  in  a  moment  of  confidence,  Moxon 
told  me  that  women  as  a  rule  do  not  take  to  him,  it  is 
that  he  wishes  to  hide  his  affection  for  the  whole  sex. 
I  quite  agree  with  him.  If  I  had  any  affection  for  the 
sex,  I  should  try  to  hide  it  myself. 

But  all  this  was  really  beside  the  point.  One 
thing,  and  one  thing  only,  was  in  full  occupation  of 
my  mind  —  the  last  words  that  little  half-drowned 
mouse  had  said  to  me  before  she  went.  "  She  '11 
thank  you  for  it  one  day." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  37 

A  vision  of  Clarissa  thanking  me  grew  formlessly 
into  my  mind.  I  gazed  over  Dandy's  head  into  the 
fire.  She  was  there.  There  was  her  little  gown  of 
canary-colored  satin,  the  very  shade  of  it,  leaping 
and  dancing  with  all  the  joy  that  I  had  brought.  A 
very  silly  dream !  I  tried  to  put  it  out  of  my  head.  I 
turned  to  Moxon,  asking  him  if  ever  in  the  course 
of  our  travels  we  had  been  to  Ballysheen.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"Where  is  it,  sir?" 

"  In  Ireland." 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

;<  Why  does  it  sound  familiar  to  me  then?"  I 
asked. 

He  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  Prime  Minister  in 
deep  thought.  I  cannot  say  that  I  know  what  that 
attitude  is;  but  it  was  the  attitude  I  fancy  I  should 
assume  if  I  were  asked  to  play  the  part  of  a  Prime 
Minister  in  an  advertising  world.  It  impressed  me 
immensely.  I  felt  that  his  mind  was  working  at  a 
Herculean  task.  It  lasted  a  good  two  minutes. 
Dandy  and  I  watched  him  with  keen  interest  all  the 
time.  So  much  were  we  wrought  up  to  the  pitch  in 
fact,  that  when  it  was  all  over  and  Moxon  suddenly 
made  a  swift  movement  towards  my  desk,  Dandy 
rushed  at  him,  barking  loudly.  It  says  much  for 
the  histrionic  powers  of  Moxon.  I  could  have  made 
some  similar  exhibition  of  emotion  myself,  but  I  am 
more  reserved. 

After  a  few  moments'  hunting  about  among  my 


38  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

correspondence  —  letters  I  have  kept  over  two  or 
three  years  which  I  need  to  refer  to  again  —  he  pro- 
duced an  envelope  and,  in  a  triumph  of  silence,  gave 
it  into  my  hands. 

I  opened  it.  Then,  when  I  saw  the  address 
stamped  on  the  top  of  the  note-paper,  it  all  came 
back  to  me.  The  Rosary — Ballysheen. 

"  Why,  Townshend!  "  said  I. 

Moxon  inclined  his  head  with  dignity,  like  a  con- 
juror who  has  produced  the  card  from  the  hair  of  a 
lady  in  the  audience. 

"  MY  DEAR  A.  H.,"  ran  the  letter,  "  The  floods 
are  all  over  and  all  our  pools  are  stocked.  We  shall 
have  the  best  season  we  Ve  ever  had.  There  's  a 
rod  tired  of  hanging  here  for  you.  Come  and  flog 
the  water  for  a  week  —  only  come  at  once.  Yours 
—  F.  H.  TOWNSHEND." 

"That  was  the  i8th  of  April  —  two  years  ago," 
said  I. 

"  You  did  n't  go,  sir." 

Of  course  I  had  not  gone.  Should  I  have  forgot- 
ten Ballysheen  if  I  had?  That  was  the  time  we  went 
to  Algiers,  and  I  glanced  at  Dandy. 

"  You  can  go  to  bed,  Moxon,"  said  I,  and  there- 
with I  sat  down  at  my  desk  and  pulled  out  a  clean 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

"  Good-night,"  I  answered,  and  I  dipped  my  pen 
in  the  ink. 

"  MY  DEAR  F.  H.,"  I  wrote,  "  If  the  fishing  is  any- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  39 

thing  like  it  was  two  years  ago,  may  I  come  over  and 
hold  a  rod  in  your  honor?  My  doctor  tells  me  I 
want  a  change  and  I  am  beginning  to  believe  him, 
accordingly  when  I  happened  on  your  letter  of  two 
years  ago,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  force  your  hospi- 
tality. If  inconvenient  don't  hesitate  to  say  so.  — 
Yours,  A.  H.  BELLAIRS.  P.S.  —  Are  there  two 
old  maiden  ladies  in  Ballysheen  of  the  name  of 
Fennell?" 

When  I  had  finished,  I  read  it  through.  Could 
any  man  guess  from  that  innocent  little  postscript, 
the  mad  errand  I  had  in  contemplation?  I  think 
I  know  now  why  women  are  such  past-masters  in  the 
use  of  that  particular  form  of  letter  writing.  As  a 
method  of  diplomacy,  there  is  nothing  to  touch  it. 
What  you  say  in  a  postscript  can  have  no  possible 
significance  to  the  man  who  reads  it.  Were  it  a 
matter  of  dignity  alone,  no  one  would  admit  to  them- 
selves that  you  had  treated  them  with  such  scant 
courtesy.  No  —  that  postscript  was  the  one  bright 
spot  in  my  letter,  and  therewith  I  sealed  it  up. 

When  I  came  back  to  the  fire,  there  was  Dandy 
still  staring  at  the  leaping  antics  of  the  canary-colored 
flame.  I  sat  down  on  the  hearthrug  and  put  one  arm 
round  his  neck. 

'You  can  see  that  satin  gown,  too,  can  you?" 
said  I.  Dandy  blinked  his  eyes.  "  And  do  you  think 
she'll  be  grateful?"  I  went  on.  "Do  you  really 
imagine  that  any  woman  is  grateful  to  a  rank  out- 
sider for  breaking  her  heart?  It  will  break  her 


40  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

heart,  you  know.  She  's  breaking  it  now,  longing 
for  her  blue  skies  and  her  palm  trees  —  but  if  we 
send  her  back  there  without  him,  it  '11  break  her  heart 
altogether.  Yet  that 's  what  we  shall  have  to  do. 
We  shall  have  to  send  her  back  again.  What  do  you 
think  about  it  all?" 

Dandy  yawned  towards  the  fire,  and  the  yellow 
flame  danced  higher  than  ever.  At  moments  it 
looked  as  though  it  were  going  to  leap  up  the  chim- 
ney out  of  sight,  yet  always  it  came  back  into  the 
heart  of  the  fire  once  more  like  a  spirit  chained  to 
the  furnace. 

Three  days  later  there  came  a  reply  from  Bally- 
sheen. 

"  There  's  not  a  fish  in  the  water,"  wrote  Town- 
shend.  "  But  come  all  the  same,  you  never  know. 
Your  company  is  as  good  as  any  twenty-pounder  in 
the  slackest  of  seasons."  "  What,  is  he  lonely 
too?  "  I  thought.  "  There  are  Miss  Fennells  here," 
the  letter  continued,  "  but  for  God's  sake  don't  talk 
of  them  as  old  maiden  ladies  —  Miss  Emily  wears 
an  orange-colored  wig,  so  they  say  in  Ballysheen  — 
and  she  would  have  you  know  that  at  thirty-seven  a 
woman  is  in  her  prime.  I  don't  promise  you  enter- 
tainment from  them  —  but  come  anyway." 

And  I  am  going.  I  have  just  rung  the  bell  for 
Moxon,  and  Dandy  already  is  beginning  to  lift  his 
nose  to  the  scent  of  adventure  in  the  wind. 


CHAPTER   V 

WHEN  I  woke  up  this  morning  —  my  first  in  Bally- 
sheen —  the  sun  was  ablaze  upon  everything.  Last 
evening  I  had  driven  over  the  nine  miles  from 
Youghal  upon  Quin's  car.  Quin  is  the  local  baker, 
doing  odd  jobs  as  a  jobbing-master  besides.  Then 
the  sky  had  been  a  sullen  grey,  no  light  or  hope  was 
there  to  be  found  in  it  as  far  as  your  eyes  could  see. 
Those  long,  lone,  rutted  roads  were  empty.  Not  a 
soul  did  we  pass  from  the  bridge  over  the  Blackwater 
all  the  way  to  where  the  dense  trees  tunnel  an  en- 
trance into  the  wee  village  of  Ballysheen. 

"  Is  it  always  as  lonely  as  this  over  here?  "  I  asked 
of  Quin,  whose  eyes  were  set  dreamily  before  him, 
as  though  in  the  little  gap  between  the  horse's  ears  he 
saw  visions  of  a  country  we  should  never  reach. 
"  Are  there  never  any  people  about  on  the  roads?  " 

With  a  jerk  he  brought  himself  back  into  the 
present. 

"  Shure  there  are  plenty  of  people  in  these  parts," 
said  he,  "  only  they  're  in  their  cottages,  the  way  't  is 
misting." 

I  gathered  that  he  meant  raining.  But  it  was  not 
raining,  wherefore  I  said  as  much. 

"Ah  —  well  it  will,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  fatality. 


42  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Ye  see  them  clouds  over  there  to  the  west,  't  is 
always  wet  when  they  be  coming  up  from  there. 
D'  ye  see  the  way  the  cattle  have  got  their  backs 
turned  to  ut?  Yirra,  don't  I  know  a  wet  day  when 
I  see  wan!  " 

"  But,  my  God !  "  said  I.  "  It 's  six  o'clock  and  it 
isn't  wet  yet!  " 

"  Wait  a  while,"  he  replied,  equably,  "  it  will," 
and  he  put  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  to  prove  it. 

That  was  my  first,  my  very  first,  impression  of  Ire- 
land. Here  this  morning  there  was  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky,  the  sun  was  a  flaming  torch  in  the  heavens, 
there  had  not  been  a  drop  of  rain  all  night,  yet  in  the 
heart,  in  the  very  spirit  of  James  Quin  there  had 
poured  down  a  veritable  deluge.  And  they  would 
understand  Ireland  who  talk  of  a  nation  of  light- 
hearted  men  and  women.  I  think  we  must  have 
driven  three  more  miles  of  our  journey  before  I  said 
another  word  after  that.  Speaking  truth,  the  grey- 
ness  of  it,  the  endlessness  of  those  walls  of  mud  and 
stone,  the  passing  sight  of  a  roofless  cottage,  the 
very  soul  of  its  past  habitation  starved  and  dead 
within  it,  they  had  all  combined  to  close  about  me  in 
a  dull,  impenetrable  despair.  Despair,  I  will  admit, 
that  was  not  of  my  own.  I  was  thinking  of  Clarissa. 
I  could  see  her  gazing  forth  from  the  window  of  her 
prison,  with  those  dark,  Southern  eyes  of  hers,  gaz- 
ing into  that  limitless  mist  of  grey  out  of  which,  had 
a  Banshee  cried,  upon  my  word,  I  should  have  felt  no 
surprise. 

. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  43 

Then  from  thought  of  her  came  the  sudden  won- 
der to  my  mind  —  how  was  I  to  help  her?  How,  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  set  about  the  liberation  of  a 
woman  who  hugs  to  her  heart  the  very  chains  that 
bind  her?  And  not  that  obstacle  only,  but  there  were 
those  two  maiden  aunts  to  face.  It  was  then  I  turned 
once  more  to  Quin. 

"  Who  are  the  Miss  Fennells  who  live  in  Bally- 
sheen?  "  I  asked. 

"  Is  it  Miss  Mary  and  her  sister,  living  at  Jane- 
mount?  " 

"  Are  there  others?  "  I  inquired. 

"  There  are  not,"  said  he,  "  't  is  enough  for  one 
village  to  be  havin'  thim  two.  I  would  n't  drive 
thim  on  this  carr,  not  if  they  was  to  go  down  on  their 
four  knees  bended." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Faith,  they  'd  owe  me  for  the  job  of  ut  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives." 

"  Are  they  very  poor?  " 

"Is  ut  poor?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Shure,  they 
have  n't  got  what  'ud  cover  the  palm  of  me  wan 
hand  with  silver,  an'  they  dhrive  to  Lady  O'Shea's  at 
the  house  on  the  cliff  over,  the  way  ye  'd  think  the 
money  was  dhropping  out  av  a  sack  with  a  hole 
in  ut." 

"  Is  it  a  crime  to  be  poor,  then?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  he;  "  but  't  is  a  crime  to  hide  ut, 
the  way  ye  can  be  ashamed  of  others  who  are." 

To  meet  fatalism  and  philosophy  all  in  one  day! 


44  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  had  not  done  as  much  in  London  in  a  year.  But 
in  Ireland,  if  Nature  has  not  given  you  the  one,  a 
divine  Providence  invests  you  with  the  other.  My 
friend  Townshend,  whom  I  have  not  met  since  our 
days  together  at  Oxford,  I  find  is  a  philosopher  to 
his  finger-tips.  But  his  is  a  philosophy  of  the  beauty 
of  Nature,  whereby  he  closes  Her  hand  that  she  may 
not  present  him  with  the  gift  of  fatalism  too. 

It  was  this  morning  when,  finding  the  sun  laughing 
in  at  my  windows,  shaming  my  laziness,  I  jumped 
out  of  bed,  dressed  and  went  down  into  the  garden. 
There  was  Townshend  already  before  me,  visiting  his 
rose  trees  with  an  open  pruning  knife  in  his  hand. 

"  I  thought  March  —  "I  began. 

He  laughed. 

"  You  're  quite  right,"  said  he.  "  March  for 
pruning  —  but  all  the  rest  of  the  year  for  love." 

I  stole  a  glance  at  him  as  he  moved  to  another 
tree.  This  was  the  first  swift  insight  I  had  received 
into  his  philosophy.  Had  he  really  got  the  secret  of 
it  —  had  he  found  Dandy's  unassailable  circle  of  con- 
tentment? One  asks  one's  self  these  questions  in  a 
breath.  If  in  the  next  breath  they  are  not  answered, 
they  are  gone.  Now,  in  the  next  breath,  the  name 
of  Dandy  having  but  recently  come  into  my  mind,  I 
lost  sight  of  the  spirit  of  his  philosophy  and  began 
wondering  where  he  was  in  the  flesh.  From  wonder- 
ing, I  asked. 

"  On  a  morning  like  this,"  said  Townshend, 
"  where  else  would  you  expect?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  45 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Out  on  the  cliffs  with  Bellwattle?  " 

I  stared  at  him. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  said  I,  "  who  's  that?  " 

"  My  wife.  My  name  for  her  is  Bellwattle.  In 
a  moment  of  exuberant  spirits  one  day,  she  addressed 
me  as  Cruikshank.  Why?  For  no  reason.  For  less 
reason  I  returned  her  the  compliment  of  Bellwattle. 
That  at  least  was  suggested  by  her  name  for  me. 
What  made  her  think  of  Cruikshank  is  more  than  I 
can  tell  you.  She  has  n't  the  faintest  conception 
herself." 

So  I  call  them  Cruikshank  and  Bellwattle.  It 
seems  in  some  odd  way  to  fit  in  with  the  quaintness 
of  their  philosophy  —  this  living  to  give  to  Nature  in 
return  for  what  Nature  has  to  bestow  on  them. 

Just  before  breakfast,  then,  came  Dandy  dancing 
attendance  on  Bellwattle.  They  had  walked  four 
miles. 

She  swung  up  the  path  from  the  gate  with  Dandy 
at  her  heels,  and  her  step  was  as  light  as  the  morn- 
ing. I  had  not  even  known  until  the  night  before 
that  my  host  was  married;  yet  as  Dandy,  seeing  me 
for  the  first  time  that  day,  leapt  thrice  and  was  at 
my  knees,  she  gave  me  a  smile  and  a  cry  of  good- 
morrow,  and  I  felt  we  had  been  the  best  of  friends 
for  the  better  part  of  our  lives. 

"  How  about  breakfast?  "  said  Cruikshank. 

Bellwattle  nodded  her  head  violently,  waving  a 
bunch  of  wild  violets  in  her  hand.  I  followed  them 


46  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

slowly  into  the  house.  There  was  something  on 
Dandy's  mind  which  he  had  somehow  or  other  to 
express. 

"Well  —  what  is  it?"  I  said,  and  I  caught  one 
paw  as  he  jumped  up,  so  that  he  must  walk  upon  his 
hind  legs  beside  me.  "  What  is  it?  " 

He  dragged  at  his  paw  until  I  set  it  free,  and  then 
he  told  me.  He  raced  three  times  round  one  flower- 
bed and  twice  round  another,  with  the  sides  of  his 
body  almost  touching  the  ground,  so  incredible  was 
the  speed  he  made.  When  that  was  completed  he 
came  back  and  looked  up  at  me  with  his  tongue  loll- 
ing out. 

"  I  understand,"  said  I.  "  I  can  feel  it  just  the 
same.  It 's  the  country."  Whereupon  he  started 
racing  it  all  over  again. 

Of  course,  it  is  the  moment  that  lives;  never  the 
hour  or  the  day  or  the  year.  The  moment  is  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  truth  in  our  conception  of 
Eternity.  I  have  gone  back  in  my  mind  since,  over 
my  stay  at  Ballysheen,  and,  though  many  a  meal-time 
comes  back  to  my  memory  with  pleasure,  that  first 
breakfast  stands  out  beyond  them  all. 

The  chintz  curtains  were  drawn  full  back,  the  win- 
dow was  wide  open.  Marvellously  muted  by  the  dis- 
tance came  the  tireless  music  of  the  sea,  which  plays 
upon  its  gentlest  instruments  when  the  day  is  still. 
From  the  farmyard  over  the  way  the  strains  of  yet 
another  orchestra  touched  at  moments  on  our  ears. 
Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  clashed,  for  Nature 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  47 

chooses  her  instrumentalists,  not  for  what  they  can 
do,  but  for  what  they  must.  This  is  not  only  the 
secret  of  harmony,  it  is  the  secret  of  all  music  and 
all  art. 

In  the  hedge  of  barberry  across  the  lawn,  the  birds 
were  building  a  very  city  of  houses.  In  the  high 
grass  of  the  lawn  itself,  the  daffodils  lifted  their  trum- 
pets, blowing  a  blast  —  young  heralds  announcing 
the  entry  of  a  knight  into  the  lists,  while  all  the  little 
snowdrops  bowed  their  heads,  as  maidens  used,  and 
trembled. 

I  sat  down  at  the  table  facing  the  window  in  si- 
lence. Upon  the  clean  white  cloth  was  placed  their 
set  of  Worcester-pink,  with  the  color  of  roses,  such 
as  we  scarce  know  how  to  handle  upon  china  now. 
In  the  middle  of  it  all  stood  one  great  bowl  of 
primroses. 

The  maid  came  in  and  placed  a  basin  of  porridge 
before  me  —  porridge !  Such  as  I  had  not  eaten  for 
years  and  years. 

"  I  '11  ask  them  to  let  me  off  this  to-morrow,"  I 
said  to  myself.  "  But  this  being  my  first  day,  't  were 
better  manners  to  take  it  now  and  say  nothing." 
Therefore,  I  took  it;  and  what  is  more,  I  am  glad 
I  said  nothing.  When  I  looked  up  out  of  the  window 
again,  that  basin  was  empty. 

Half  way  through  breakfast,  Cruikshank  suddenly 
looked  up.  He  directed  his  gaze  at  me. 

"What  was  that  about  the  Miss  Fennells?"  said 
he. 


48  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

For  a  moment  I  felt  confusion  in  my  cheeks.  The 
barest  instant  it  lasted,  and  then  was  gone;  yet  in 
that  very  instant  Bellwattle's  eyes  had  sought  my 
face.  When  a  woman  has  instinct  —  and  when  has 
she  not?  —  her  heart  has  seen  long  before  her  eyes 
are  warned  of  it.  The  abruptness  of  her  husband's 
question  had  presupposed  confusion  in  both  of  us, 
wherefore,  while  I  was  confused,  her  eyes  were  ready 
to  my  face  to  find  it.  I  would  swear  Cruikshank  were 
as  ignorant  of  it  as  a  helpless  babe,  for  when  he  had 
waited  but  a  second  for  my  answer,  he  began  again. 

"  That  letter  you  wrote  me,"  said  he.  ;*  When 
you  asked  —  " 

"  Of  course  —  I  know  —  and  in  the  postscript  I 
wanted  to  know  if  they  lived  here." 

"  That 's  it." 

I  made  an  effort  to  let  him  leave  it  at  that. 

"  All  your  eggs  come  from  the  farm,  I  suppose?  " 
I  hazarded. 

"Yes;  he  won't  let  me  keep  chickens;  they  tear 
up  the  garden,"  said  Bellwattle.  "  Bless  their  hearts 
—  I  think  those  little  chickens  —  the  tiny  little  yel- 
low things  —  "  The  thought  of  them  overwhelmed 
her. 

Words  failed,  as  they  often  did  with  her.  She 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  keep  them  next  year;  but 
Cruikshank  shook  his  head. 

'  What  was  it  you  wanted  to  find  out  about  the 
Miss  Fennells?"  he  asked.  His  mind  had  clung 
tenaciously  to  its  subject. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  49 

"  Merely  that  I  wanted  to  know  if  they  lived  here. 
I  had  heard  them  mentioned." 

'  They  live  at  a  house  called  Janemount,"  said 
Bellwattle.    "  I  '11  show  it  to  you  after  breakfast." 


CHAPTER   VI 

IN  an  affair  of  this  kind  it  is  best  to  keep  one's 
own  counsel.  I  find  it  necessary  to  warn  myself  in 
this  fashion,  for  it  has  ever  been  that  women  have 
found  an  easy  prey  in  me.  I  know,  moreover,  that 
Bellwattle  is  already  curious  of  my  confusion  at 
breakfast.  What  she  thinks  it  would  be  impossible 
to  say;  but  that  she  has  finally  made  up  her  mind 
about  it,  of  that  I  am  certain.  Such  a  child  of  Na- 
ture as  she  is  must  have  instinct  alive  in  her  to  her 
finger-tips. 

Doubtless,  she  imagines  I  am  in  love.  Without 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  she  believes  a  woman  to  be 
in  some  way  concerned.  For  here  it  is  that  women 
think  more  elementally,  more  simply  and,  therefore, 
nearer  to  the  truth  than  their  brothers.  There  is 
nothing  that  a  lonely  man  can  do,  but  what  a  woman 
will  trace  therein  the  influence  of  her  sex.  And  it  is 
damnable  to  have  to  admit  it,  but  she  is  right. 

Now  with  Cruikshank,  whose  mind  is  for  ever 
working  in  complicated  theories  about  the  grafting 
of  roses  and  who,  in  his  day  at  Oxford,  was  thought 
well  of  as  a  mathematician,  with  him  and  his  highly 
elaborated  intelligence,  I  know  that  I  could  trust 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  51 

myself  all  day.  I  might  lead  him  a  thousand  times 
in  the  direction  of  Clarissa's  prison,  and  he  would 
never  adjust  the  facts  to  a  definite  assumption  of  my 
behavior.  It  would  not  be  so  with  Bellwattle. 

As  I  left  them  after  breakfast  in  the  morning- 
room,  Cruikshank  said  to  me,  "  You  know,  I  'm  glad 
you  thought  of  coming  over  for  the  fishing.  From 
something  I  heard  yesterday  I  believe  we  're  going 
to  have  some  fish  up  the  stream  after  all." 

I  echoed  most  heartily  that  I  was  glad  of  it,  and  I 
left  the  room.  But  outside  the  door  I  stopped. 
There  was  a  broad  passage  leading  down  to  the  hall 
door  which  stood  wide  open,  and  through  a  break 
in  the  trees,  where  stretched  in  the  distance  a  sea 
of  emerald,  there  stood  the  blood-brown  sail  of  a 
Kerry  fishing-boat.  I  stopped  to  watch  it,  flapping 
its  wings  in  an  idle  breeze  like  a  tortoise-shell  butter- 
fly in  a  green  meadow.  Then,  as  I  suppose,  think- 
ing I  had  departed  altogether,  I  heard  Bellwattle's 
voice  within  the  room. 

"  I  like  him  very  much,"  said  she,  for  which  si- 
lently I  thanked  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
"  But,"  she  added,  "  what  a  pity  he  's  so  ugly." 

Now,  if  there  be  those  who  do  not  follow  from 
this  how  I  knew  that  she  had  connected  me  at  once 
in  her  mind  with  the  mystery  of  some  woman,  I  must 
leave  it  unexplained  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  do. 
To  give  it  words  were  to  tangle  it  a  thousand  times. 
It  is  far  too  dainty  for  that. 

I  walked  on  then  out  into  the  garden,  wandering 


52  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

up  this  path,  down  that.  Everywhere  there  were 
those  little  sticks,  neatly  written  on,  marking  the 
spots  where  seeds  were  in  the  earth.  I  picked  up  one 
and  read  it — "Sweet  Pea  —  Lady  Grizel  Hamil- 
ton "  —  and  all  about  that  spot  there  was  a  cluster 
of  little  Lady  Grizels,  neat  and  clean  in  their  tiny 
fresh  green  pinafores.  Next  door  —  for  all  the 
world  like  boys  and  girls  at  a  country  National 
school  —  stood  a  crowd  of  sturdy,  young  Lord  Nel- 
sons. Upon  my  soul  I  should  not  have  known  which 
was  which  had  it  not  been  for  the  kindly  information 
of  those  little  slips  of  wood  directing  me. 

And  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  how  strange 
it  was,  how  dearly  does  all  humanity  cling  to  life; 
for  whereas  in  God's  Acre  the  little  slips  of  wood 
mark  out  the  places  where  the  dead  lie  buried,  it  is 
not  so  with  man.  In  that  little  acre  which,  with  such 
simple  vanity,  he  calls  his  own,  his  garden,  a  man 
will  plant  his  tiny  slips  of  wood  to  mark  the  spot 
where  life  is  hidden  for  a  while;  hidden,  only  to 
come  forth  and  blossom  for  his  happiness.  When, 
then,  I  had  thought  so  far  as  that,  there  came  with 
a  rush  into  my  mind  the  words  in  Maeterlinck's 
"  Blue  Bird,"  "  There  are  no  dead,"  and  suddenly 
I  saw  it  all. 

The  body  of  a  man  holds  a  seed.  Through  life 
it  ripens,  as  all  seeds  do.  Then,  when  the  sun  has 
parched  it  dry  and  you  would  say  "  there  is  no  life 
in  it " ;  then  comes  the  hand  of  God  to  lay  it  in  the 
earth  once  more  that  it  may  flower  again. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  53 

In  a  strange,  weird  picture,  then,  I  saw  a  vision 
of  the  Lady  Grizel  Hamilton  planting  a  seed  of  the 
sweet  pea  of  her  name.  With  gentle,  loving  fingers 
she  laid  it  in  her  garden's  acre,  and  in  the  warm 
brown  mould  she  placed  a  slip  of  wood,  washed 
white  with  lime,  on  which  she  wrote  —  "  The  Lady 
Grizel  Hamilton." 

That  vision  passed,  and  then  I  saw  the  hand  of 
God  stretch  forth  and  take  the  gentle  lady  in  His 
grasp.  With  fingers  just  as  tender,  He  laid  her  in  a 
corner  of  His  acre  and,  whitening  a  little  cross  of 
stone,  He  wrote  —  "  The  Lady  Grizel  Hamilton." 

"  Can  it  be  that  there  is  philosophy  in  the  very 
air  of  this  country?  "  thought  I  to  myself,  and  then, 
before  the  fancy  of  it  vanished  quite  away,  I  said  the 
name  again.  I  must  have  said  it  aloud.  "  The  Lady 
Grizel  Hamilton,"  said  I,  and  looking  up,  I  saw 
Cruikshank  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed  smiling 
at  me. 

"Picking  out  the  best?"  said  he.  "The  Lady 
Grizel  is  a  wonderful  pale  mauve." 

"  Are  these  little  mites  of  things  going  to  bear  a 
mauve  flower?  " 

"  Are  they  going  to  bear  baskets  full  of  them?  " 
he  said.  "  Baskets  and  baskets  full !  Wait  till  you 
see  them  when  they  're  standing  as  high  as  my  arm 
can  reach." 

"  You  're  boasting,"  said  I. 

"  I  'm  not,  on  my  oath.  I  stand  six  foot,  and  they 
come  high  above  my  head.  In  these  beds  here,  with 


'54  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

this  aspect,  I  can  grow  the  best  sweet  peas  in  the 
South  of  Ireland." 

"  Go  on,"  said  I,  "  I  like  to  hear  it.  No  man  's  a 
gardener  until  he  can  say  his  garden  is  the  best.  It 's 
the  colossal  and  superb  self-satisfaction  of  the  crea- 
tion all  over  again.  You  find  it  all  good.  And  they 
would  say  man  was  not  made  in  God's  image  I  What 
color  does  Lord  Nelson  wear?  " 

"  A  faint  blue." 

"  Good—  and  Black  Knight?  " 

"  Oh,  a  most  wonderful  deep  black  scarlet." 

"  Out  of  that  little  tuft  of  green !  " 

I  looked  up  and  found  his  eyes  were  watching 
me. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  said.  'You're  not  a 
gardener." 

I  agreed  I  was  not. 

"  I  want  to  get  at  your  philosophy,"  said  I. 

"I'm  not  a  philosopher,"  he  replied;  "I'm  a 
gardener." 

"  But  what  do  you  get  out  of  it?  " 

He  pointed  down  to  the  little  Lady  Grizels  in 
their  green  pinafores. 

"Nothing  else?" 

He  took  out  a  pocket-knife  and  cut  a  little  twig 
from  a  standard  rose  tree,  cut  it  off  just  above  a  tiny 
red  shoot  that  was  thrusting  itself  forth  from  the 
bare,  dry  wood. 

"  Preparing  a  garden,"  said  he,  "  is  like  laying 
the  foundations  of  a  perfect  city.  Every  path  is  a 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  55 

street,  every  bush  is  a  dwelling-place,  every  flower 
is  a  beautiful  being.  Sometimes  it  seems  like  that. 
And  sometimes  it  seems  like  an  adventure  of  Sinbad 
the  Sailor,  an  engrossing  business  of  dealing  with  the 
earth  for  the  treasures  she  holds.  You  don't  know 
what  colors  there  are  in  that  dull  brown  mould  until 
you  come  to  drop  into  it  a  little  withered  seed  the 
size  of  a  pin's  head,  a  magnet,  drawing  out  of  the 
ground  colors  that  no  artist  would  have  the  courage 
to  mix  upon  his  palette.  A  little  while  ago  I  pruned 
the  rose  trees  of  the  front  of  the  house.  It  was  a 
blazing  hot  day.  I  had  to  get  a  ladder  and  lean  it 
up  against  the  wall.  When  I  climbed  up  the  ladder 
there  was  a  warm  breath  of  air,  coming  from  the 
bricks,  and  when  I  stretched  out,  leaning  right  up 
against  it,  seeing  all  those  young  shoots  of  the  rose 
tree  just  bursting  with  life,  it  was  like  leaning  up 
against  the  world  and  knowing  that  the  whole 
scheme  of  things  was  perfect." 

He  had  still  more  to  say.  I  could  see  that  the 
whole  heart  of  him  was  full  of  it,  but  suddenly  he 
stopped  in  confusion. 

'  What  did  you  make  me  talk  like  that  for?  "  he 
asked. 

'  Just  for  what  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  I.  "  Your 
philosophy.  It  proves  what  I  always  believe." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Philosophy  's  not  a  matter  of  expediency.  You 
don't  evolve  a  philosophy  to  help  you  through  life; 
life  evolves  it  for  you,  and  the  only  philosophy  that 


56  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

counts  is  one  of  beauty.  But  there 's  something 
more  beautiful  than  sweet  peas." 

"  I  quite  agree,"  said  Cruikshank.  "  I  much  pre- 
fer lilies  myself." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  human  beings,"  said  I,  and 
at  that  moment  came  Bellwattle  out  of  the  house. 

"  Now,"  I  asked  her,  "  what 's  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world?  " 

She  heard  not  a  single  word  of  my  question,  but 
she  answered  it  nevertheless. 

"  Where  's  Dandy?  "  said  she. 

Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  which  of  us  is  right. 


CHAPTER   VII 

BALLYSHEEN  is  one  of  those  little  villages,  tucked 
in  between  high  headlands,  that  lie  along  the  south 
coast  of  Ireland.  A  Protestant  rector,  a  parish 
priest  and  his  curate  shepherd  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred souls  of  which  it  is  composed. 

There  is  one  street  —  so  called  —  lined  with 
those  white  or  pink-washed  cottages,  all  one  story 
in  height,  which  are  peculiar  to  that  corner  of  the 
world.  For  the  most  part  they  are  occupied  by 
fishermen;  though  here,  there  is  Quin  the  baker, 
there,  Foley  the  provision  merchant  and,  distributed 
in  other  cottages  down  the  street,  you  will  find  Line- 
han  the  cobbler,  Tierney  the  town  councillor  and 
plumber,  O'Shaughnessey  the  butcher,  and  last  of 
all,  achieving  distinction  by  its  proportions,  the 
two-storied  edifice  belonging  to  the  Royal  Irish 
Constabulary. 

Besides  and  beyond  the  centre  of  this  hive  of 
activity,  there  are  three  lanes,  all  combining  to  meet 
towards  that  road  which  has  been  built  up  the  side 
of  the  cliff  and  which,  when  at  length  necessity  ceases 
for  it  to  continue,  dwindles  into  a  winding  cliff  path 
that  leads  on  and  away  to  the  wild  headlands. 


'58  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

The  few  better-class  houses,  occupied  by  summer 
residents,  or  those  who  of  necessity  are  compelled 
to  live  there  the  whole  year  round,  are  to  be  found 
variously  situated.  There  is  no  fashionable  quarter 
in  Ballysheen.  If  you  were  to  divide  it  up  into 
quarters  you  might  lose  sight  of  it  altogether.  My 
friend  Cruikshank  lives  in  a  house  hidden  away  in 
a  nest  of  trees  that  cluster  round  the  Protestant 
church.  Janemount,  on  the  other  hand,  belonging 
to  the  Miss  Fennells,  is  away  on  the  very  brow  of 
the  cliff  road,  just  at  that  point  where  it  tires  of  mag- 
nificence and  becomes  a  little  rambling  path. 

Apart  then  from  the  cottages  and  houses  of  better 
class,  there  are  the  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  the  Prot- 
estant church,  the  schools,  the  post-office  —  which 
is  an  ordinary  cottage  with  two  holes  in  it,  one  where 
you  buy  stamps,  the  other  where  you  post  letters  — 
there  is  the  lifeboat  house  and  the  court  house,  the 
latter  used  mostly  by  the  butcher,  and  last  of  all, 
there  is  that  record  of  forty  years'  stern  and  persist- 
ent agitation,  the  pier.  Like  a  breakwater,  it  runs 
out  some  thirty  yards  or  so  into  the  sea,  locking  in 
a  little  strip  of  water  where  the  fishing-boats  lie  at 
rest.  For  forty  years  they  agitated  for  its  construc- 
tion and  when,  after  a  year's  labor,  the  last  block  of 
cement  was  laid,  the  fishermen  turned  and  looked 
into  each  other's  faces. 

"  Shure,  what  in  the  name  of  God  do  we  want  a 
pier  for?  "  they  said.  "  If  they  'd  had  the  sinse  to 
buy  us  a  few  boats !  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  59 

But  no  one  yet  who  has  provided  for  Ireland  has 
ever  had  the  "  sinse."  Sense  in  fact  is  not  the  qual- 
ity that  is  required.  One  ounce  of  heart  would  do 
more  for  Ireland  than  a  whole  bushel  load  of  sense. 
And  the  one  man  who  had  it,  lost  it  to  a  woman  I 
Is  not  that  ever  the  way? 

This  then  is  Ballysheen.  I  feel  I  have  discharged 
a  duty  in  describing  it,  however  poorly.  In  the  first 
ten  minutes  as  I  walked  with  Bellwattle  towards  the 
Miss  Fennells'  houses,  I  was  able  to  absorb  it  all,  to 
realize  at  the  same  time  that  I  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  it. 

It  is  ever  the  people  one  must  know;  seldom  the 
place.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  three  of  them 
that  morning.  It  was  as  we  took  the  broad  lane 
which  connects  the  church  road  with  that  leading  to 
the  cliff,  that  we  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  approach- 
ing us.  At  such  distance  he  would  have  been  undis- 
tinguishable  to  me,  but  Bellwattle  knew  him  at  once. 

"  Let 's  turn  and  go  the  other  way  through  the 
village,"  said  she. 

I  asked  her  why. 

"  Here  comes  General  Ffrench.  He 's  a  most 
terrible  bore.  Directly  he  sees  I  'm  with  a  visitor 
—  a  stranger  —  he  '11  want  to  be  introduced.  He  '11 
force  us  to  stop  and  speak  to  him." 

"  As  you  like,"  said  I,  but  I  was  disappointed.  I 
was  not  sure  that  anybody  could  bore  me  there. 
"  What  sort  of  a  dog  is  that  he  has  with  him?  "  I 
added.  It  was  a  hazard,  but  it  was  my  only  chance. 


60  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Is  Pepper  with  him?  "  said  she. 

"  If  that  black  Aberdeen  is  Pepper  —  "  said  I. 

I  heard  no  more  about  turning  back.  She  just  told 
me  to  come  along  and  I  went.  As  we  decreased  the 
distance  between  us,  Dandy  began  a-pricking  of  his 
ears. 

I  pointed  to  him  as  his  tail  set  erect. 

"  I  don't  expect  we  shall  be  bored,"  said  I. 

She  stooped  down  to  take  hold  of  Dandy's  collar. 

"  P'raps  they  '11  fight." 

I  shook  my  head.  This  was  the  first  I  was  to  see 
of  Bellwattle  in  her  moments  of  maternal  fussiness. 
Where  any  animals,  birds  or  insects  are  concerned, 
she  becomes  like  a  hen  with  a  brood  of  chickens. 
Cruikshank  tells  me  that  when  first  he  took  her 
abroad,  she  shuddered  and  winced  at  every  animal 
in  the  streets.  Whenever  she  saw  a  horse  whose 
harness  chafed  a  sore  on  its  back,  she  bit  her  lip  and 
clutched  his  arm. 

"  You  must  n't  look  at  them,"  said  he. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  replied.  "  I  find  myself 
looking  out  for  them  because  I  know  they  're  there." 

At  last  he  gave  it  up  in  despair.  There  was  no 
curing  her. 

"  I  suppose  women  must  suffer,"  he  concluded,  as 
he  told  the  little  incident  to  me. 

"  If  one  might  only  say  that  of  men,"  said  I. 

"And  who  is  this  General  Ffrench?  "  I  asked,  as 
we  walked  along  to  meet  him.  "  What  regiments 
did  he  command?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  61 

"  Oh  —  he  was  only  a  Surgeon-General,"  said 
she. 

"Then  why  not  give  him  his  proper  title?" 

"  Not  one  of  us  has  the  courage,  besides  you  for- 
get the  —  the  what-ever-you-call-it  that  we  get  out 
of  it.  It 's  not  only  what  he  calls  himself,  it 's  what 
we  want  to  call  him.  We  should  be  very  unhappy 
if  we  couldn't  say  —  General  Ffrench." 

I  bent  my  head  in  comprehension,  just  catching  the 
twinkle  in  her  eye. 

"  Am  I  to  begin  to  understand  Ireland  from 
that?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  would  n't  begin,  if  I  were  you,"  said  she. 

And  then  she  told  me  more  about  him,  how  he 
lived  with  his  widowed  sister,  combining  his  pension 
with  the  fragile  income  her  husband  had  left  to  her; 
how  she,  too,  cultivated  a  garden,  but  one  whose 
produce  was  designed  to  bring  them  in  a  steady,  but 
scarce-appreciable  profit  through  the  summer  months. 

"  She  sends  round  a  little  girl,"  said  Bellwattle, 
"  who  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  one  hand  which  she 
holds  —  conscupiously  do  you  call  it?  " 

I  nodded  —  what  does  a  word  matter  one  way  or 
another?  Language  was  a  precious  thing  once  when 
the  few  knew  how  to  use  it. 

'  Which  she  holds  conscupiously  in  front  of  her. 
In  the  other,  behind  her  back,  she  carries  a  basket 
of  vegetables,  peas  and  so  on.  She  comes  to  the 
back  door  and  when  it  is  opened,  she  thrusts  forward 
the  flowers.  '  These  are  from  Mrs.  Quigley,'  she 


62  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

says,  and  then  comes  the  hand  with  the  basket  of 
peas  from  behind  her  back." 

"  Therefore  having  taken  the  flowers,"  said  I  — 

"Well  naturally,"  said  Bellwattle;  "  I  wouldn't 
mind  if  I  had  to  praise  her  for  her  peas,  because 
they're  really  splendid.  But  one  dare  not  mention 
them.  They  Ve  been  paid  for.  So  I  have  to  thank 
her  for  the  flowers  which  are  given,  and  they  're 
nothing  to  what  Cruikshank  grows." 

"  Cruikshank  grows  the  most  beautiful  flowers  in 
the  world,"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye, 
which  is  her  habit,  always  fearing  that  one  has  con- 
trived to  deceive  her.  If  ever  she  finds  that  I  have 
misled  her  in  the  use  of  that  word  —  conspicuously 
—  can  I  hope  to  regain  her  confidence  then?  But 
were  women  unable  to  forgive,  where  should  we  be? 
And  not  that  only,  but  what  would  there  be  left  for 
women  to  do? 

The  next  moment,  General  Ffrench  was  bearing 
down  upon  us.  Already  he  had  raised  his  hat,  in 
much  the  same  fashion  as  you  lift  a  lid  from  off  a 
saucepan  and,  holding  it  there  above  his  head,  he 
came  forward  with  the  other  hand  stretched  out  and 
a  weather  eye  upon  me.  Bellwattle  knew  her  man. 
There  was  no  getting  away  from  this. 

But,  the  moment  I  was  introduced,  she  turned  her 
attentions  to  Pepper.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye, 
I  saw  her  formally  introducing  Dandy. 

"  Pepper,"  J  heard  her  say,  "  this  is  Dandy,"  and 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  63 

they  both  glared  at  each  other  like  two  nations  at 
war. 

"  You  '11  find  this  a  quiet  little  spot,"  the  General 
was  saying  to  me,  "a  bit  too  quiet  —  eh  —  after 
London."  It  sounded  to  me  like  comparing  Chicago 
to  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  "  I  find  myself,"  he  went 
on,  "  that  it 's  too  quiet  sometimes  —  just  a  bit  too 
quiet.  I  like  the  hum  of  the  traffic  —  the  hum  —  eh 
—  that 's  what  it  was  like  when  I  was  in  London 
thirty  years  ago  —  sounded  just  like  a  hum." 

"  It  has  been  called  that,"  said  I. 

"It  has?  Well  —  I'm  not  surprised.  I  go  to 
Dublin  myself  occasionally  —  just  to  see  how  the 
world  's  wagging.  It 's  a  change  after  this.  I  al- 
ways say  to  my  sister,  Mrs.  Quigley  —  you  must 
come  down  and  see  us  —  I  always  say  to  her  that  the 
danger  of  a  place  like  this  is  that  you  get  in  a  groove. 
Fatal  thing,  you  know — fatal  thing  —  a  groove." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  fear  that,"  said  I,  "  if  you 
go  to  Dublin  every  year." 

'  Well,  I  don't  go  every  year,  not  regularly;  it 's 
an  expensive  place  you  know  —  Dublin  —  there  are 
such  a  crowd  of  things  to  be  seen,  such  a  number  of 
things  to  be  done,  and  they  all  cost  money.  I  was 
up  there  the  time  the  old  Queen  came  over  —  fine 
reception  we  gave  her  too  —  fine  reception.  I  re- 
member it  as  if  it  were  yesterday." 

At  this  point  he  suddenly  assumed  that  terrible 
attitude  of  the  raconteur.  I  felt  Bellwattle's  hand 
tugging  gently  at  my  coat. 


64  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  General  Ffrench,"  said  I, 
and  then  I  turned  to  her.  "  Are  we  keeping  you?  " 
I  asked. 

"  I  think  I  'd  better  be  getting  on,"  said  she. 

"Tell  me  that  another  time  then,  will  you?"  I 
suggested.  "  I  Ve  often  wanted  to  know  what  sort 
of  a  reception  she  really  did  get." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Bellwattle,  when  we  had 
passed  out  of  hearing. 

"  Thank  you"  said  I.  "  Now  tell  me,  has  he  ever 
been  to  Dublin  since  he  gave  the  old  Queen  that 
magnificent  reception?  " 

"  Never." 

I  looked  back  at  his  retreating  figure.  He  was 
striding  it  nobly.  There  was  the  whole  of  the  British 
Army  in  every  step  that  he  took.  He  seemed  as 
though  he  were  marching,  for  ever  marching,  as  if 
he  feared  were  he  to  stop,  the  music  would  no  longer 
sound  in  his  ears.  Every  action,  therefore,  every 
movement  had  in  them  the  rigid  discipline  of  the 
Service.  Each  simple  thing  he  did  was  in  time  to 
the  upward  wave  of  the  drum-stick.  He  then  was 
one  of  the  three  I  met  that  morning. 

The  other  two  were  the  Miss  Fennells,  the  two 
maiden  aunts  whose  existence  I  had  first  heard  of  in 
that  far-away  restaurant  which  seems  to  me  now  at 
the  furthermost  end  of  the  earth. 

When  Bellwattle  touched  my  arm  and  said  — 
"  The  Miss  Fennells  "  —  I  felt  the  pulses  quicken 
which  evenly  had  been  beating  in  me.  The  whole 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  65 

of  that  story  then  came  back  as  though  I  had  just 
heard  it.  The  sound  of  the  violins  crept  into  my 
ears.  I  could  hear  the  clatter  of  plates,  see  the  faces 
of  those  two,  that  man  and  that  woman,  as  they  sat 
together  drinking  their  coffee.  His  barking  laugh 
shouted  suddenly  at  me  out  of  the  past;  but  last 
of  all,  Clarissa,  in  her  gown  of  canary-colored 
satin. 

And  then  I  knew  how,  until  that  moment,  it  had 
never  truly  been  real.  I  had  dreamed  it  all  until 
then;  it  had  only  been  a  story.  But  now  these  two 
prim  figures,  in  costumes  too  extravagant  to  describe, 
the  mere  sight  of  them  had  made  the  story  come 
true,  had  turned  the  dream  Into  reality,  and  I  began 
a-wondering  why  I  had  ever  set  out  about  the  busi- 
ness at  all. 

I  think  Bell  wattle  must  have  been  watching  me, 
for  suddenly  she  said  — 

;<  Would  you  rather  we  did  n't  stop  and  talk  to 
them?" 

How  do  women  know  these  things?  She  had 
taken  it  from  my  mind  before  my  thoughts  had 
found  it.  In  another  instant,  had  she  not  spoken,  it 
would  have  been  a  conscious  idea.  I  should  have 
preferred  not  to  have  been  introduced  to  them  that 
morning.  Then  she  put  her  question  and,  human 
nature  being  as  it  is,  I  said,  "  Oh  no  —  by  all  means, 
let  us  stop.  I  want  to  meet  them." 

Whereupon  in  the  next  moment  there  was  made 
the  second  stage  in  my  erratic  journey.  I  was  intro- 


66  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

duced  in  all  solemnity  to  Miss  Mary  and  Miss 
Teresa  Fennell. 

It  is  a  distressing  fact,  when  you  come  to  describe 
a  woman,  to  find  that  you  know  nothing  whatever  of 
the  character  of  those  garments  which  go  to  make 
her  what  she  is.  A  hat  or  a  bonnet  mean  but  little 
—  but  little,  unless  you  can  trim  them.  The  bonnet 
then  which  was  worn  by  Miss  Mary,  the  hat  by  Miss 
Teresa,  must  remain  without  description,  for  to  trim 
them  is  absolutely  beyond  me.  I  can  only  tell  of  the 
little  thought  that  occurred  to  my  mind  as  I  noticed 
them  —  the  thought  that  the  bonnet  of  Miss  Mary 
was  a  gentle  concession  of  years  to  the  hat  of  Miss 
Teresa.  There  is  hope  left  in  a  hat,  even  if  it  only 
exists  in  the  mind  of  the  head  that  wears  it.  God 
alone  can  tell  what  hopes  lie  buried  beneath  a  bon- 
net; no  man,  I  swear,  could  ever  know. 

The  Miss  Fennells,  therefore,  must  describe  them- 
selves. Miss  Teresa  with  her  wealth  of  ruddy  brown 
hair,  her  discreet  allusions  to  the  age  at  which  a 
woman  is  at  her  best,  her  pathetic  little  memories 
of  the  past,  all  of  which  go  to  prove  that  she 
cannot  be  more  than  thirty-seven,  notwithstanding 
these  obvious  characteristics,  Miss  Teresa  eludes 
me.  Neither  can  I  any  more  describe  Miss 
Mary. 

It  is  personal  bias  that  stands  in  my  way.  I  think 
of  their  cruelty  to  Clarissa,  and  I  can  judge  them 
from  no  other  standpoint.  It  is  as  well  then  to  leave 
it  alone.  Only  the  far-reaching  and  all-comprehen- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  67 

sive  eye  can  judge.  I  was  prejudiced  before  I  met 
them. 

It  was  as  I  listened  to  Miss  Mary,  whose  words 
hurry  from  her  lips  and  remind  me,  in  their  simple 
anxiety  to  get  out  of  her  mouth,  of  children  tumbling 
out  of  school,  it  was  as  I  listened  to  her  that  I  heard 
Bellwattle  say  to  Miss  Teresa  — 

"  How  is  your  invalid  to-day?  " 

In  a  moment  my  hearing  was  alert,  but  the  languid 
reply  of  Miss  Teresa  did  not  satisfy  me. 

"  Much  about  the  same,"  she  answered. 

I  was  not  content  to  let  it  go  at  that.  With  proper 
sympathy,  I  inquired  of  Miss  Mary. 

'  You  have  an  invalid  in  your  house?  "  said  I. 

"Poor    child  —  we   have    indeed,"    replied   she. 

'T  is  her  eyes  are  very  weak." 

"  Is  the  doctor  attending  her?  " 

"  Well  —  the  doctor  here  is  not.  She  *s  after  see- 
ing a  doctor  in  London  and  't  is  his  instructions  now 
that  she  's  following." 

"  In  what  way  are  her  eyes  weak?  "  I  asked,  and 
I  looked  directly  in  her  face. 

With  no  intention  to  depreciate  human  nature,  I 
say  all  men  and  women  are  liars,  and  with  one 
striking  difference  between.  Women  are  successful. 
With  the  utmost  ease  in  the  world,  Miss  Mary  told 
me  of  this  lovely  child  to  whom  her  nephew  was 
engaged  to  be  married.  With  the  most  dexterous 
imagination  she  described  how  Clarissa's  ailment 
compelled  her  to  be  confined  to  the  house  in  semi- 


68  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

darkness.  How  lovingly  they  cared  for  her  and 
tended  her  —  well  "  it  is  not  difficult  for  you  to  sup- 
pose," said  she. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  I.  "  But  surely,*'  I  added,  "  it 
must  be  bad  for  her  to  have  no  exercise." 

Oh  —  there  were  evenings,  of  course,  when  they 
took  her  out  —  just  for  a  little  walk  along  the  cliffs. 
Even  then  they  had  to  protect  her  eyes.  The  doctor 
in  London  had  said  she  could  not  stand  the  light. 

"  What,  light  at  night?  "  said  I. 

Miss  Teresa  touched  Miss  Mary's  arm. 

"  Have  you  got  the  letters?  "  she  asked.  There 
was  no  hurry  about  it.  It  was  said  quite  gently;  but 
it  served  its  purpose.  My  question  was  never  an- 
swered. The  next  moment  they  were  continuing 
their  way  to  the  post-office.  Bellwattle  and  I  were 
left  alone  to  the  pursuit  of  our  destination. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  where  they  live  now  you  Ve 
met  them?"  she  asked. 

"  We  might  as  well  go  that  way,"  I  replied.  "  It 
leads  to  the  walk  round  the  cliffs,  does  n't  it?  " 

She  nodded  and  we  walked  on. 

I  knew  the  house,  long  before  she  stopped  and 
pointed  it  out  to  me.  It  was  just  the  prison,  just  the 
cage  I  had  imagined  it  to  be.  In  a  little  plot  of  land 
on  the  cliff's  edge  it  stood,  looking  out  across  the 
wide  and  lonely  bay  of  Ballysheen.  The  sun  was 
shining  then,  but  I  knew  what  it  must  be  like  on  a 
ligktless  day.  There  was  no  garden,  and  the  shrubs 
that  partly  surrounded  the  house  were  bent  with  the 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  69 

south-west  wind.  They  looked  like  old  witches 
stooping  in  the  grass  to  gather  simples.  No  creeper 
grew  upon  the  walls.  It  was  all  a  cold  grey  stone, 
and  the  windows  stared  and  stared  as  though  they 
ached  with  endless  looking  out  to  sea.  Even  with 
that  sun  burning  in  the  sky,  the  water  was  not  blue. 
I  thought  of  the  colors  which  must  still  be  living, 
burning  in  the  eyes  of  that  little  prisoner  behind  those 
walls,  and  with  an  effort  I  kept  my  exclamation  to 
myself. 

"  Shall  we  go  on?  "  said  Bellwattle. 

I  acquiesced,  but  just  as  we  were  about  to  turn 
away,  I  saw  the  curtains  in  an  upper  window  move. 
For  one  instant  they  were  pulled  aside  and  a  face  that 
surprised  me  with  its  paleness  peeped  out. 

I  stopped,  waiting  to  see  more,  hoping  that  I 
should  really  behold  Clarissa  for  the  first  time  and 
then,  as  the  curtains  fell  together  again,  I  turned  to 
look  at  Bellwattle  and  found  her  watching  me. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

AT  the  bottom  of  the  garden  I  sat  out  under  the 
hedge  of  nut  trees  this  afternoon  and  did  my  best  to 
formulate  a  plan  of  action.  Dandy  sat  on  the  ground 
before  me,  staring  up  into  my  face.  He  knew  I  was 
thinking  deeply  and,  though  he  would  not  have  dis- 
turbed me  for  the  world,  I  saw  that  he  was  offering 
me  his  assistance.  It  consists  of  a  rapt  and  undivided 
attention  while  I  speak  aloud  whatever  comes  first 
into  my  head.  There  are  but  few  occasions  when 
I  refuse  his  offer.  I  accepted  it  then. 

"  This  requires  strenuous  concentration,"  said  I, 
whereupon  I  began  to  let  my  eyes  wander  up  the  gar- 
den to  where  Cruikshank  was  seeing  to  his  raspberry 
canes. 

He  really  should  have  been  called  Adam.  Cruik- 
shank is  no  proper  name  for  him.  For  that  matter, 
she  might  with  better  reason  have  been  called  Eve. 
They  are  just  a  man  and  woman  in  a  garden  and,  so 
far  as  I  know,  there  is  no  tree  within  its  high  stone 
walls,  the  fruit  of  which  they  may  not  touch.  It 
would  have  saved  a  deal  of  trouble  had  the  garden 
of  Eden  been  like  this. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  71 

As  I  looked  back,  I  caught  Dandy's  eye.  It  was 
reminding  me  that  I  was  letting  concentration  go 
with  the  wind.  That  wind  always  springs  up  when  I 
attempt  anything  in  the  nature  of  concentration.  I 
know  so  well  the  tune  of  it.  So  sure  as  I  set  my  mind 
to  some  definite  contemplation,  it  plays  the  prettiest 
of  fancies  in  my  ears. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  I,  with  an  effort,  "  what 's  to 
be  done?  There  are  a  thousand  difficulties.  First 
of  all,  she  is  never  alone,  except  in  that  little  cage 
of  hers  with  its  drab  white  muslin  curtains.  If  we 
meet  her  on  the  cliffs  at  night,  there  are  the  Miss 
Fennells  guarding  her  with  their  escort.  There  is 
no  possibility  of  seeing  her  in  the  house.  But  last 
of  all  — "  and  here  I  bent  down,  looking  Dandy 
squarely  in  the  eyes  —  "  what  right  have  we  to  inter- 
fere when  the  God  of  a  Thousand  Circumstances 
makes  up  His  mind  to  break  a  woman's  heart?  " 

Now  Dandy  knows  nothing  of  the  God  of  a  Thou- 
sand Circumstances.  The  only  God  he  honors  is 
that  of  Chance,  wherefore  and  on  that  score  he  an- 
swered my  question  as  best  he  could.  There  was  a 
sudden  rustling  in  the  long  grass  under  the  nut  trees, 
whereat  he  pricked  his  ears  and  all  his  body  stiffened 
to  the  sound.  The  next  instant  a  large  rat  crept  out 
of  the  bushes,  and  Dandy  was  after  him.  I  made  no 
objection.  He  never  catches  them.  For  a  few  min- 
utes he  rushes  wildly  in  many  directions,  digs  up  in- 
numerable things  that  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  it,  and  behaves  generally  as  though  life  were  a 


72  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

whirlwind,  of  which  he  is  the  centre  and  all-important 
force.  After  that,  he  comes  back  quietly  once  more 
to  me,  and  sitting  down  says  — 

"  I  might  have  caught  him.  I  got  very  near.  I 
don't  often  miss  them  like  that.  I  was  really  too 
clever  for  him ;  that 's  how  he  got  away." 

Then  a  scarlet  tongue  comes  out  and  he  licks  his 
lips.  It  proves  conclusively  to  me  how  near  he  did 
get.  He  always  does;  that  is  why  I  raise  no  objec- 
tions. It  puts  him  in  excellent  mood,  and,  I  imagine, 
has  a  way  of  teaching  the  rat  that  fitness  is  a  quality 
never  to  be  despised  in  this  world. 

I  waited  on  this  occasion  till  it  was  quite  over. 
Then  Dandy  came  back  and  told  me  all  about  it, 
right  through,  without  any  variation,  even  to  the  lick- 
ing of  the  lips. 

"  So  that 's  your  answer,"  said  I.  "  Have  no  truck 
with  the  God  of  Circumstance.  Follow  the  God  of 
Chance." 

It  was  the  best  advice  he  could  have  given  me. 
Adventure  makes  a  man  of  one.  I  had  set  forth 
upon  mine  and  there  was  no  sense  in  turning  back  be- 
cause I  had  come  to  a  passage  at  arms  with  difficulty 
in  the  very  first  stage  of  the  journey.  Here  was  this 
child,  friendless,  at  the  mercy  of  two  gaolers  in  whose 
possession  were  all  the  bolts  of  prejudice  wherewith 
to  keep  her  locked  away.  There  was  no  appealing 
to  the  kindlier  nature  of  the  two  Miss  Fennells. 
There  was  no  telling  them  the  truth  of  that  nephew 
on  whom  all  their  hopes  were  centred.  Then  how 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  73 

to  prove  to  this  little  prisoner  that  she  had  a  friend 
waiting  outside  the  walls  of  her  fortress,  ready  to 
help  her,  if  she  would  but  accept  help,  ready  to  save 
her  from  herself  and  all  the  relentless  consequences 
of  the  step  she  was  about  to  take.  How  to  prove  to 
her  that  she  had  need  of  a  friend  at  all?  Would  she 
believe  it?  Would  she  ever  take  the  word  of  an 
utter  stranger  against  the  promises  of  the  man  she 
loved?  Not  if  I  had  any  knowledge  of  women  at  all. 

"  But  plain  knowledge  never  won  or  lost  an  ad- 
venture yet,"  said  I,  and  Dandy  looked  up  with  a 
vast  amount  of  appreciation  into  my  face.  He  en- 
tirely agreed  with  me  there.  "  We  must  write  to 
her,"  I  went  on.  "  Contrive  to  meet  her  one  of  these 
nights  on  the  cliffs  —  give  her  the  letter,  make  some 
effort  to  see  her  alone  and  tell  her  —  tell  her  every- 
thing —  tell  her  to  go  back  to  her  blue  skies  and  her 
sunshine  where  she  can  bury  those  black  grave  clothes, 
the  garments  of  a  civilized  community,  and  take  out 
her  gown  of  canary-colored  satin  once  more." 

Having  made  up  our  minds  to  this,  we  went  into 
the  house  and  began  the  inditing  of  a  letter  to  Clar- 
issa. It  was  at  this  point  that  Dandy  lost  interest. 
He  will  give  me  the  full  of  his  attention  so  long  as 
I  talk  to  him ;  but  it  is  more  than  he  can  stand  when 
I  take  up  a  pen  and,  except  for  the  scratching  of  it 
on  the  paper,  sit  in  silence  at  my  table.  The  sound 
of  scratching,  to  begin  with,  annoys  him;  then, 
again,  although  he  has  tried,  he  cannot  understand 
one  word  of  what  I  write.  On  these  occasions  he 


74  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

wanders  aimlessly  round  the  room,  coming  back  at 
intervals  to  my  chair  to  try  and  catch  my  eye.  Fail- 
ing many  times  in  this,  he  at  last  throws  himself  in 
despair  upon  the  hearthrug  where,  lying  with  his 
nose  between  his  two  fore-paws,  he  day-dreams  — 
dreams  of  past  adventures  in  which  he  figures  as  the 
hero,  and  I,  if  indeed  I  appear  in  them  at  all,  am  just 
a  super  on  an  over-crowded  stage.  He  behaved  no 
differently  this  morning,  except  that  as  I  sat  down 
and  dipped  my  pen  in  the  ink,  he  yawned.  He  had 
never  done  that  before.  I  took  no  notice.  I  wrote 
my  letter.  Here  is  what  I  said: 

"  CLARISSA,  —  I  know  your  eyes  are  not  bad.  I 
know  all  about  it.  I  have  seen  him  in  London  and  I 
want  to  tell  you  something.  Can  you  manage  to 
meet  me  one  evening  round  the  cliffs?  Try  and  think 
how  you  can  arrange  it.  I  must  see  you  alone." 

I  did  not  sign  it  because  I  had  determined  that  if 
it  were  to  be  delivered  at  all,  it  must  be  with  my  own 
hands.  But  how?  It  had  all  the  difficulties  attached 
to  it  as  I  remember  having  experienced  when  I  was 
a  boy  at  school.  At  the  church  where  we  went  every 
Sunday,  there  attended  also  a  neighboring  school  of 
girls.  It  was  my  fortune  that  one  of  them  should 
catch  my  eye.  From  Sunday  to  Sunday  those  glances 
continued,  till  at  last  they  held  a  smile.  She  smiled 
at  me.  I  could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  true.  Again 
I  looked  and  again  she  smiled.  Then  I  remember 
how  I  tore  from  my  hymn-book  that  page  containing 
the  hymn : 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  75 

**  Can  a  woman's  tender  care 
Cease  toward  the  child  she  bare? 
Yes,  she  may  forgetful  be, 
Yet  will  I  remember  thee." 

And  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  believing  it  to  convey 
all  my  sentiments  far  better  than  I  could  ever  have 
expressed  them  myself,  I  marked  the  last  line  deeply 
with  pencil,  meaning  to  give  it  her  at  the  very  first 
opportunity.  But  how?  I  have  never  found  out  to 
this  day.  Shall  I  ever  find  out  the  way  to  give  this 
letter  to  Clarissa? 


CHAPTER    IX 

A  LITTLE  comedy  was  played  here  yesterday,  here 
in  the  garden  —  in  our  garden.  I  call  it  ours  for,  as 
the  days  go  by  in  the  company  of  Cruikshank  and  his 
Bellwattle,  there  grows  more  and  more  into  my  mind 
the  belief  that  theirs  is  the  only  way  of  living. 
Wherefore,  in  my  vainest  imaginings,  I  share  the 
garden  with  them,  calling  it  ours  to  give  a  flavor  of 
reality  to  the  conceit. 

I  was  not  present  when  this  little  play  was  enacted, 
nor  indeed  should  I  have  perceived  the  full  comedy 
of  it  had  I  been  there.    Bellwattle,  Dandy  and  I  were 
away  round  the  first  head  of  the  cliffs  where  the  gulls 
were  wheeling,  for  ever  wheeling,  up  against  the  wind. 

Cruikshank  told  us  about  it  afterwards.  He  was 
working,  it  appears,  in  the  garden  —  when,  indeed, 
is  he  not?  There  is  so  much  for  a  gardener  to  be 
doing  at  this  time  of  the  year;  indeed,  there  is  so 
much  for  him  to  be  doing  that  I  come  to  think  he  is 
one  of  the  busiest  men  I  know. 

II  The  earth  is  a  bed,"  Cruikshank  said  to  me  once, 
"  that  always  needs  making." 

I  suppose  he  is  right.  The  princesses  who  sleep 
there  till  the  morning  of  summer  calls  them  to  get 
up,  show  all  the  tenderness  of  flesh  that  betokens  a 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  77 

real  princess.  Their  beds  must  be  made  every  day. 
One  pea  beneath  innumerable  mattresses  would 
bruise  their  delicate  skins.  What  wonderful  employ- 
ment then,  to  be  master  of  the  bed-chamber,  mis- 
tress of  the  robes,  comptroller  of  the  household  — 
all  rolled  into  one  —  and  this  to  princesses  whom  you 
believe  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world. 

Cruikshank,  therefore,  was  making  the  beds,  shak- 
ing the  coverlet  of  earth  so  lightly  as  never  to  dis- 
turb the  sleepers  beneath.  It  was  while  he  was 
working,  he  said,  that  he  became  aware  of  the  ap- 
proach of  General  Ffrench.  The  old  gentleman 
came  up  the  little  drive  from  the  gate  that  opens  on 
to  the  road.  He  was  walking  timidly,  as  though  he 
knew  that  at  such  a  time  in  the  morning  it  were  an 
intrusion  to  visit  one's  friends.  Much  of  that  mili- 
tary bearing  of  his  was  gone.  His  shoulders  were 
bent  and  his  head  thrust  forward  as  he  glanced  sus- 
piciously about  him. 

For  a  while  Cruikshank  watched  him  unper- 
ceived;  then,  when  at  length  the  old  gentleman  saw 
he  was  observed,  he  tried  to  straighten  himself,  to 
bring  into  his  appearance  that  heartiness  of  manner 
characteristic  of  his  whole  bearing  as  a  soldier. 

"  Good  morning,  good  morning!  "  said  he. 

"  Good  morning,"  replied  Cruikshank,  adding  an 
oath  of  annoyance  below  his  breath  as  he  went  on 
working.  These  morning  visits  were  very  frequent 
affairs,  and  I  suppose  even  gardeners  object  to  in- 
terruption in  their  work. 


78  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  just  came  up,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  to 
have  a  talk  with  your  friend  —  let  me  see,  did  I  catch 
his  name  rightly  the  other  day?" 

"  Bellairs,"  said  Cruikshank,  shortly.  I  can  guess 
how  he  said  it.  There  is  that  suggestion  about  his 
manner  when  he  is  making  his  beds  that  you  might 
expect  to  find  in  any  master  of  a  bed-chamber.  He 
moves,  as  it  were,  with  a  finger  to  his  lips,  as  though 
he  feared  the  faintest  disturbance  to  the  sleep  of  his 
princesses.  When  he  consents  to  speech  it  is  abrupt, 
and  uncomfortably  discouraging.  The  General,  I 
can  imagine,  however,  is  not  built  of  that  fine  fibre 
which  can  appreciate  it. 

"Oh,  yes!  Bellairs!  "  said  he,  overjoyed  to  find 
that  his  memory  still  served  him  well.  "  I  just  came 
up  to  have  a  talk  with  him.  He  was  interested  the 
other  day  in  hearing  that  I  was  up  in  Dublin  when  we 
received  the  old  Queen." 

"  He  's  out,"  said  Cruikshank.  "  You  '11  find  him 
round  the  cliffs  with  my  wife." 

Doubtless  Cruikshank  hoped  that  that  would  make 
an  end  of  the  matter.  But  he  knows  nothing  of  hu- 
man beings,  young  or  old.  I  could  have  told  him 
differently.  I  know  the  type  so  well.  My  own 
father  is  one  of  them.  His  resources  for  wasting 
time  are  infinite.  No  doubt  the  same  could  be  said 
of  me.  I  am  a  lazy  devil.  But  at  least  it  is  my  own 
time  I  waste.  With  such  men  as  my  father  and  Gen- 
eral Ffrench  their  sin  is  that  they  waste  the  precious 
time  of  others. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  79 

To  be  told,  then,  that  I  was  out,  to  be  given  care- 
ful instructions  as  to  where  I  was,  had  no  power  to 
move  the  old  gentleman  one  step  upon  the  journey 
to  find  me.  He  was  out  upon  that  war-path  which 
all  garrulous  old  men  pursue.  It  mattered  but  little 
to  him  who  was  his  victim.  And  besides  all  that,  it 
was  Cruikshank  really  whom  he  wanted  to  see; 
wherefore,  altering  his  position  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  he  began  on  another  score. 

For  how  long  he  dragged  the  weight  of  the  con- 
versation from  one  point  to  another  I  do  not  know. 
It  must  have  been  entirely  by  his  own  exertions.  I 
can  conceive  the  sort  of  help  that  Cruikshank  would 
give  him.  He  brought  it  at  last,  however,  to  the  sub- 
ject he  desired.  He  spoke  of  the  forcing  of  plants 
and  then  the  forcing  of  fruits.  He  spoke  quite  elo- 
quently, Cruikshank  told  us,  but  there  was  a  strain 
of  nervousness  in  all  that  he  said  which  even  my  gar- 
dener, my  comptroller  of  the  household,  was  con- 
strained to  notice. 

"  I  felt,"  said  Cruikshank  to  us  afterwards,  "  as  if 
something  were  coming." 

He  was  quite  right.  Something  did  come.  Out 
of  the  depths  of  his  side  pockets  the  old  gentleman 
produced  four  partially  ripe  tomatoes. 

14  Well,  you  don't  believe  in  forcing,"  said  he;  "  but 
what  do  you  think  of  these?  We  forced  these  in 
our  little  green-house.  Quite  a  number  of  them." 
And  he  handed  the  whole  lot  into  Cruikshank's 
hands. 


8o  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

**  But  why  did  you  pick  them  before  they  were 
ripe?" 

"  Oh,  they  '11  ripen,"  said  he,  easily;  "  you  put 
them  in  a  warm  room  in  the  window  where  they  '11 
catch  the  sun.  You  '11  be  able  to  eat  them  in  less  than 
a  week." 

Now,  there  was  a  delicacy  of  insinuation  about  all 
this,  far  more  delicate  and  subtle  than  the  little  girl 
with  the  basket  of  vegetables  in  one  hand  and  a  gift 
of  flowers  in  the  other.  Those  tomatoes  were  the 
property  of  Mrs.  Quigley.  Was  this  a  present  from 
her?  Was  he  meant  to  keep  them  and  ripen  and  eat 
them?  Was  he  to  buy  them,  giving  the  money  for 
their  purchase  then  and  there?  What,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  was  he  to  do? 

Cruikshank  is  no  hand  at  these  delicate  situations. 
He  just  stood,  so  he  told  us,  with  his  hands  full  of 
tomatoes,  as  much  at  a  loss  for  action  as  he  was  for 
words. 

"  They  seem  very  good,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  but 
is  n't  it  a  pity  to  have  picked  them  before  they  were 
quite  ripe?"  And  then  he  was  for  handing  them 
back,  for  getting  rid  of  them  as  quickly  as  he  could 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  far  too  wary  for  that. 
He  took  a  step  backwards.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets. 

"  No,  no,  you  keep  them,"  said  he,  "  put  'em  in  a 
window,  they  '11  ripen.  But  don't  say  anything  to 
my  sister  about  them.  She  agrees  with  you.  She 
does  n't  like  'em  picked  before  they  're  ripe.  Don't 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  81 

say  anything  to  her.  I  only  saw  them  this  morn- 
ing, and  knowing  you  'd  got  a  visitor  I  thought  they 
might  be  just  a  little  —  you  know  —  dainty.  You 
don't  get  tomatoes,  not  fresh  like  those,  at  this  time 
of  the  year." 

And  then,  standing  back  yet  another  step,  his  head 
on  one  side  regarding  the  magnificence  of  his  gift, 
he  paused. 

"How  much  did  you  give  him  for  them?"  we 
asked,  when  he  had  told  us  so  far. 

"My  God!"  said  Cruikshank.  "I  didn't  give 
him  anything.  He  'd  brought  them  as  a  gift.  I  sup- 
pose he  'd  stolen  them  out  of  his  sister's  hot-house, 
but  I  could  n't  refuse  them  on  that  score.  It  would 
have  offended  him  still  more  if  I  'd  offered  him  pay- 
ment." 

I  picked  up  one  of  the  tomatoes  that  was  lying 
on  the  table.  It  was  as  hard  as  a  bullet. 

u  What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  I,  "  that  you  don't  study 
human  nature.  He  was  badly  in  need  of  some 
money." 

"  He  's  run  out  of  cartridges,"  said  Bellwattle. 
"  I  'm  very  glad  you  did  n't  give  him  anything.  Now 
he  can't  shoot  the  rabbits  down  in  Power's  field." 

"  Is  he  as  poor  as  that?  "  I  asked. 

"  Lord,  yes,"  said  Cruikshank.  "  I  Ve  known  him 
save  up  his  last  cartridge  for  days." 

"  I  expect  that 's  it,  then,"  said  I.  "  He  's  run  out 
of  cartridges." 

Bellwattle  put  her  arm  round  Cruikshank's  neck. 


82  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  You  Ve  saved  twelve  little  bunny  rabbits,"  said 
she. 

"  But  I  have  n't,"  he  replied.  "  I  can  see  it  now. 
When  he  was  going,  he  stopped  just  before  he  got 
to  the  gate  and  called  out  that  he  was  going  to  the 
post. 

'  Can  you  lend  me  a  shilling? '  he  said;    '  I  Ve 
forgotten  my  purse.' ' 

"  And  you  lent  it  to  him !  "  cried  Bellwattle. 

Cruikshank  nodded  his  head. 

1  You  'd  better  count  that  given,"  said  I.  "  It  was 
the  price  of  the  tomatoes." 


CHAPTER   X 

CLARISSA  has  got  my  letter  1  But  that  is  not  all. 
I  delivered  it  myself.  I  have  met  Clarissa,  have 
talked  with  her,  have  passed  that  third  stage  in  my 
journey  which  an  odd  week  or  so  ago  I  would  not 
have  credited  as  possible. 

Oh,  but  you  will  laugh  when  you  hear  the  little 
that  I  said  to  her  —  the  little  indeed  that  she  said  to 
me.  Yet  it  is  the  beginning.  She  still  has  my  letter 
to  read.  I  find  myself  gazing  into  distances  which 
I  never  knew  of,  seeking  for  the  answer  she  will  give. 

It  came  about  much  as  I  had  expected;  more  easily, 
too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  And  the  longer  I  keep 
my  secret  to  myself,  the  more  confident  am  I  that 
Bellwattle  knows  all  about  it.  Does  she  speak  to 
her  husband,  I  wonder?  Somehow  I  think  not. 
The  days  go  by.  The  hope  of  fish  in  the  river  be- 
comes more  and  more  remote.  Cruikshank  works 
on  solemnly  in  his  garden  and  never  says  a  word  to 
me  questioning  why  I  remain.  Perhaps  that  is  be- 
cause she  has  told  him.  Yet  is  he  ever  actor  enough 
to  keep  it  so  stubbornly  to  himself?  He  may  be. 
Possibly  I  do  not  know  the  nature  of  these  gardeners. 
There  may  be  depths  in  Cruikshank's  mind  which  I 
have  never  fathomed. 


84  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Whether  that  be  the  case  or  no,  Bellwattle  guesses. 
I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  A  thousand  times  I  have 
been  so  eager  to  know  the  nature  of  her  guessing 
that  I  have  well-nigh  told  her  all.  It  has  been  on 
the  end  of  my  tongue  when  a  sudden  timidity  has 
caught  it  back.  And  now  that  I  have  met  Clarissa, 
the  timidity  is  no  less.  It  is  more. 

Three  nights  in  succession,  Bellwattle  and  I  have 
been  out  in  a  fruitless  search  upon  the  cliffs.  Not  a 
soul  have  we  seen.  I  have  even  begun  to  wonder 
whether  the  Miss  Fennells  were  made  suspicious  by 
the  questions  I  had  asked,  for  on  each  occasion  a  light 
was  shining  in  Clarissa's  room  and  not  a  sign  of 
movement  came  from  within  the  house. 

11 1  thought,"  said  Bellwattle,  on  the  third  evening, 
"  I  thought  the  Miss  Fennells  said  they  took  their 
invalid  out  for  a  walk  when  it  was  dark." 

I  did  not  look  at  her.  I  knew  she  was  looking  at 
me. 

"  So  they  said,"  I  replied. 

"  I  'm  rather  curious  to  see  that  invalid,"  she  went 
on;  "they  say  in  the  village  here  that  she's  not 
an  invalid  at  all." 

"What  then?  "I  asked. 

"  Oh —  all  sorts  of  stories.  Tierney  told  me  the 
other  day  —  Tierney  is  our  town-councillor  and 
plumber.  As  a  human  being  he  lets  the  drains  get 
into  disorder —  as  a  town-councillor  he  gives  himself 
the  contract  to  see  to  them,  and  as  a  plumber  he 
partly  puts  them  right.  You  ought  to  meet  him. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  85 

But  he  told  me  that  she  was  a  black  from  the  West 
Indies." 

"  How  did  he  know  that?  "  I  asked,  quickly,  and 
the  next  moment  I  saw  how  my  words  must  imply 
knowledge  to  her. 

"  He  does  n't  know  it,"  said  she.  "  Why  should 
he  ?  Is  n't  it  when  people  don't  know  things  that 
they  talk  about  them  ?  " 

I  laughed.  If  she  applies  that  little  piece  of  wis- 
dom to  me  who  say  nothing,  can  there  be  any  doubt 
but  that  she  guesses  at  the  truth? 

"  But  what  makes  your  friend  Tierney  suppose 
anything  so  extravagant  as  a  black  from  the  West 
Indies?  "  I  asked. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  which,  in  its  way,  is  just 
as  expressive  as  shrugging  one's  shoulders. 

"  I  think  the  Miss  Fennells  have  given  it  out  that 
she  comes  from  America,  and  if  you  think  of  the 
veil  she  wears  always  and  the  fact  that  no  one  in 
Ballysheen  has  ever  seen  her  face,  you  Ve  got  enough 
to  make  people  in  a  small  Irish  village  say  far  more 
extravagant  things  than  that.  Mind  you,  I  don't 
believe  what  Tierney  says.  I  should  n't  be  a  bit 
surprised  to  find  that  she  is  beautiful." 

That  very  nearly  drew  me ;  but  not  quite.  I  know 
she  is  beautiful.  Not  because  I  have  that  young 
man's  word  for  it.  I  see  her  beautiful,  as  that  type 
nearly  always  is.  Every  time  the  name  Clarissa  finds 
its  way  into  my  thoughts,  there  creeps  in  with  it  a 
picture  which  eludes  all  description  of  outline.  I  see 


86  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

a  dim  vision  of  deep  dark  eyes  set  in  that  faint  blue- 
white  —  the  white  of  old  china  he  called  it.  God 
knows  I  thank  him  for  nothing,  unless  it  be  for  that. 
She  has  an  olive  skin,  so  tenderly  touched  with  those 
southern  suns  that  ivory  might  match  it.  Her  mouth 
is  sad,  for  when  the  God  of  a  Thousand  Circum- 
stances takes  a  woman  in  His  grasp,  He  lets  fall 
two  drops  of  sorrow  in  her  eyes  and  moulds  her  lips 
to  His  own  making.  Then  her  hair  I  know  is  black; 
but  in  the  blackness  of  it  I  can  see  a  light  of  brown 
as  though  it  once  had  caught  a  sun  ray  in  its  net  and 
caged  it  there  for  ever. 

More  clear  a  vision  than  this,  the  picture  of 
Clarissa  denies  me.  I  shall  know  her  no  better 
when  I  see  her  face  than  I  know  her  already  now;  yet 
something  dreads  me  to  think  of  that  first  moment 
when  she  removes  her  veil.  The  dread  is  not  that 
I  shall  see  her.  The  look  in  that  little  nursery 
maid's  eyes,  in  many  another  woman's  face  as  well, 
comes  quickly  into  my  mind  and  I  know  it  is  the 
dread  that  she  will  see  me. 

Is  it  from  such  men  as  I  that  women  take  advice? 
Sometimes  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  listen  to  me,  that 
she  will  never  go  back  to  her  sunny  islands;  that 
she  will  let  herself  be  taken  into  the  heart  of  that 
underworld  where  her  lover  has  the  substance  of 
his  being,  and  there  will  be  a  still  deeper  sorrow,  a 
greater  trouble  than  before,  which  she  will  never 
bring  to  me. 

It  was  a  sore  temptation  then  to  tell  Bellwattle 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  87 

how  beautiful  I  know  Clarissa  to  be.  But  I  resisted 
it,  and  we  returned  that  third  evening  without  re- 
ward. It  was  the  very  next  night,  however,  that  our 
patience  bore  fruit. 

"  Are  you  two  always  going  to  go  out  in  the  even- 
ing?" asked  Cruikshank,  when  we  looked  into  the 
room  to  give  him  a  friendly  nod  of  the  head. 

"  Come  with  us,"  said  Bellwattle. 

He  shook  us  a  negative,  and  I  thought  for  the 
moment,  I  could  not  tell  you  why,  that  he  was  not 
happy;  that  somewhere  in  his  philosophy,  a  link  was 
loosened  that  made  the  whole  chain  weak. 

"  Do  come,"  I  said. 

But  he  shook  his  head  again. 

"  I  Ve  got  this  book  to  read,"  said  he.  "  A  man  's 
more  than  a  dog  in  the  manger.  He  's  not  contented 
with  the  sole  occupation  of  his  stall;  he  wants  other 
dogs  to  sit  by  and  envy  him.  Out  you  go." 

And  out  we  went,  but  it  was  cold  that  night  and, 
coming  back  to  get  a  shawl  for  Bellwattle,  I  saw 
Cruikshank  through  a  break  in  the  curtains.  His 
book  was  laid  down  upon  the  table  and  his  face 
was  hidden  in  his  hands. 

'  There  is  no  sense  in  disturbing  a  man  when  he  's 
like  that,"  I  said  to  myself,  but  it  fell  heavily  on  my 
mind  and  I  wondered  whether  any  man's  philosophy 
were  complete. 

When  I  came  back  to  Bellwattle  I  said  nothing. 
A  man's  wife  knows  more  of  him  than  does  any  out- 
sider, and  to  ask  her  questions  is  only  to  put  one's  self 


88  The  Garden  of  Resitrrection 

further  from  the  truth.  Until  we  came  to  the  Miss 
Fennell's  house,  we  walked  in  silence.  It  was  then, 
when  I  saw  no  light  in  Clarissa's  window,  that  I 
felt  the  first  intimation  of  what  might  soon  be  ac- 
complished in  the  progress  of  my  journey,  and  my 
hand  went  to  my  pocket  to  see  that  the  letter  was 
there. 

"  They  Ve  gone  to  bed  early  this  evening,"  said 
Bellwattle,  whereby  I  knew  that  the  same  thought 
had  crossed  her  mind  as  well. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  light  in  that  upper  window.  It 's  usually  lit 
at  this  time.  P'r'aps  they  Ve  gone  out  for  their 
walk." 

I  agreed  that  it  was  possible,  but  I  said  no  more. 
She  saw  from  my  manner  then,  no  doubt,  that  it  was 
useless  to  try  and  draw  me  further,  wherefore,  as  a 
woman  will,  she  shot  away  at  a  tangent  and  talked 
of  London,  that  I  might  think  the  matter  no  longer 
interested  her.  She  asked  me  what  I  did  with  my 
days. 

I  could  not  help  but  laugh  at  her  question. 

"Ask  me  what  the  days  do  with  me?"  said  I, 
"  they  are  my  masters,  not  I  theirs." 

"You  do  nothing?" 

"  Nothing  that  can  be  called  anything.  When  a 
man  is  situated  in  life  as  I  am,  having  been  brought 
up  to  no  profession,  supported  by  a  father  whose 
support  would  be  generous  were  it  not  that  he  gives 
as  little  as  he  can,  when  a  man  is  situated  like  that, 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  89 

to  do  nothing  is  an  art  which  needs  the  most  ex- 
hausting study,  in  which  so  many  are  failures  that  you 
may  count  the  successes  on  the  fingers  of  your  one 
hand." 

"  And  you  Ve  succeeded?  "  said  she. 

*  It 's  the  only  pride  I  have,"  said  I.  "  There  are 
not  many  men  in  London  who  can  do  nothing  so  well 
as  I  can  on  fifteen  hundred  a  year." 

"  And  you  Ve  no  ambition  to  do  anything  else?  " 
'  There  's  only  one  ambition,"  I  replied,  "  only 
one  worth  the  having." 

"What's  that?" 
'  To  do  something  for  some  one  else." 

;<  Well?  "  said  she,  expectantly. 

"Well!  "I  answered. 

'What's  to  prevent  you  being  ambitious?"  she 
asked. 

"  The  fact,"  said  I,  "  that  there  is  no  one  else." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  looked  down  the 
cliftside  where  Dandy  was  worrying  himself  with  a 
rabbit  hole.  Hearing  the  cessation  of  our  voices  he 
looked  up,  and  his  nose  was  comical  with  red  earth. 

She  laughed  at  him  and  then  she  said:  "Isn't 
Dandy  some  one?  " 

"  I  'm  constrained  to  find  him  somebody,"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  queerly  for  a  moment —  no,  not 
queerly,  for  in  her  eyes,  as  it  were,  I  felt  the  touch 
of  her  hand  and  why,  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  she  is 
twenty-seven  and  I  am  forty-three,  but  a  thought  of 
my  mother  in  no  special  sense  just  passed  across  my 


90  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

mind.  Possibly  it  was  because  no  woman  has  looked 
at  me  like  that  since  she  was  alive;  or  maybe  it  was 
a  sentimental  imagination.  The  best  thoughts  we 
have,  the  best  emotions,  so  I  am  told,  are  only  sen- 
timentality. 

I  could  not  tell  you  how  long  that  glance  of  hers 
had  lasted  when  out  of  the  silence,  which,  like  a 
tireless  sentinel,  stands  guard  upon  those  cliffs,  there 
came  the  sound  of  nearing  voices.  They  drew  closer 
out  of  the  immense  stillness  as  figures  come  towards 
you  out  of  a  mist.  We  turned  for  an  instant  in  their 
direction,  and  then  as  Dandy,  hearing  them  too, 
rushed  up  the  cliff  and  off  into  the  darkness,  barking 
wildly,  Bellwattle  looked  at  me  and  whispered  — 

'  These  are  the  Miss  Fennells,"  and  she  laid  her 
fingers  tight  about  my  wrist. 

I  knew  then  that  what  I  had  felt  in  her  eyes  was 
true.  It  had  been  the  touch  of  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  was  no  need  for  us  to  announce  ourselves. 
Dandy,  who  in  two  weeks  has  made  himself  known 
to  the  whole  village,  had  finished  with  every  prelimi- 
nary. As  the  three  figures  came  in  sight  round  a 
sudden  bend  of  the  cliff  path,  we  could  see  him  trot- 
ting amiably  by  their  side. 

"  And  the  invalid,"  said  Bellwattle,  in  a  whisper. 

"  And  the  invalid,"  I  repeated,  below  my  breath, 
but  I  know  she  did  not  hear  me.  I  scarcely  heard 
myself. 

Another  moment,  in  which  my  eyes  were  staring 
through  the  darkness  at  that  dim  third  figure  which 
I  knew  to  be  Clarissa,  and  then  we  had  met.  A 
nervous,  hurried  introduction  took  place.  I  caught 
no  word  of  it  then  but  the  name  —  Clarissa's  name. 
They  said  Miss  Fawdry.  That  was  all  I  heard.  It 
was  what  I  saw  which  occupied  all  my  attention. 
Clarissa  was  dressed  in  black  —  just  as  I  had 
imagined.  A  thick  veil  covered  her  face,  falling  to 
her  shoulders,  so  that  only  a  dim  line  of  the  features 
could  be  seen  behind  it.  She  bowed  to  us  both  in  a 
quaint,  timid,  old-fashioned  way.  I  shall  never  for- 
get this  my  first  meeting  with  Clarissa  on  that  wild 
headland  of  those  cliffs  in  Ireland.  There  will  never 


92  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

die  out  of  my  ears  the  long,  lonesome  cries  of  the 
sea  birds,  the  sound  of  the  waters  rolling  to  the  rocks 
three  hundred  feet  below,  or  those  vivid  stillnesses 
which  fall  upon  you  between  the  sound  of  the  waves 
and  the  child-cries  of  the  gulls  away  at  sea.  These 
things  and  that  little  black  figure  of  a  girl  whom  I 
had  come  some  hundreds  of  miles  to  meet  on  the 
bare  credit  of  a  story  —  these  I  shall  never  forget. 

It  could  not  have  been  so  pregnant  a  moment  with 
Bellwattle.  For  if  indeed  she  guesses  —  as  well  I 
know  she  must  —  there  is  bound  to  be  many  a  mistake 
in  her  speculations.  Doubtless,  she  thinks  I  have  met 
Clarissa  before;  that,  like  some  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  I  am  pursuing  the  lady  to  whom  my 
heart  is  captive.  Whatever  she  thinks,  there  will  be 
romance  to  it.  There  is  not  that  in  a  woman  capable 
to  conceive  so  prosaic  a  mission  as  mine.  Thank 
God  for  it  too.  A  woman  will  stitch  the  thread  of 
love  into  the  heel  of  an  old  sock  while  a  man  is 
impatiently  waiting  to  put  it  on.  For  romance  to  a 
man  is  the  winning  and  riding  away  —  away  into 
the  heart  of  a  sunset  —  but  to  a  woman  it  is  all  hori- 
zon and  beyond. 

Whatever,  then,  she  thought  at  our  first  meeting, 
there  was  no  such  confusion  in  her  mind  as  was  in 
mine;  wherefore  she  went  straight  to  the  point,  in- 
quiring of  Clarissa's  health  because,  I  suppose,  it  was 
the  most  natural  thing  to  say. 

"Are  your  eyes  any  better,  Miss  Fawdry?"  she 
asked. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  93 

The  Miss  Fennells  glanced  quickly  at  her,  and  in 
those  glances  I  felt  the  cruel  power  of  their  coercion. 
By  those  glances  they  forced  her  to  give  the  answer 
that  she  made. 

They  were  no  better,  she  said,  quietly. 

"  But  they  're  no  worse,  my  dear,"  added  Miss 
Teresa,  cleverly.  "  I  'm  sure  the  doctor  that  Harry 
made  you  see  in  London  has  treated  you  the  right 
way." 

She  made  no  reply  to  that.  When  forced  to  play 
a  part,  it  must  be  difficult  to  enter  with  one's  whole 
heart  into  the  spirit  of  it.  I  could  hear  in  her  silence 
the  brokenness  of  spirit,  that  exhaustion  of  courage 
which  must  come  when  the  wings  have  been  beating, 
ceaselessly  beating  against  the  bars  of  a  cage. 

They  gave  her  a  moment  in  which  to  make  answer, 
and  then,  glad,  no  doubt,  of  her  silence,  they  de- 
clared they  must  be  going  home.  Miss  Mary  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Townshend,"  she  said. 

But  it  needed  very  little  cleverness  to  be  cleverer 
than  that. 

"  Oh,  we  're  coming  back,  too,"  said  Bellwattle. 
"  We  had  just  agreed  to  turn  when  we  heard  your 


voices." 


So  we  all  set  back  for  Ballysheen.  Now,  this 
was  the  moment  I  had  been  waiting  for.  Their  sus- 
picion fell  least  upon  me.  By  her  questions  alone, 
if  not  also  from  the  fact  that  she  was  a  neighbor,  it 
was  their  strategy  to  manoeuvre  that  Bellwattle  should 


94  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

walk  with  them.  Not  for  one  moment  would  they 
have  trusted  her  alone  with  Clarissa;  wherefore,  the 
path  being  a  narrow  one,  Miss  Teresa  walked  first, 
leaving  Bellwattle  in  the  charge  of  Miss  Mary.  And 
so  it  fell  out  that  I  walked  with  Clarissa  alone. 

You  may  imagine  how,  with  those  few  moments 
before  me,  my  thoughts  were  like  leaves  on  a  swollen 
stream.  Round  and  round  my  head  they  eddied  and 
swirled,  and  not  a  one  could  I  grasp  to  give  it  words. 
We  must  have  walked  fifty  yards  before  a  thing  was 
spoken.  Now,  this  is  not  my  way  with  women.  As 
a  rule  I  talk  to  them  with  ease.  True,  it  is  while 
they  are  talking  to  Dandy,  and  doubtless  that  gives 
me  confidence.  But  in  this  case  everything  seemed 
different.  I  might  never  have  spoken  to  a  woman 
before.  But  when  we  had  walked  so  far  in  silence  it 
came  to  desperation  with  me.  I  said  anything;  what, 
indeed,  seemed  nonsense  at  the  time.  In  the  light  of 
things,  as  I  see  them  now,  I  can  imagine  that  it  was 
the  very  best  beginning  I  could  have  made. 

"  Are  you  happy  in  Ireland?  "  said  I. 

She  looked  round  at  me  quickly.  From  an  utter 
stranger  I  can  understand  how  odd  that  question 
must  have  seemed. 

"Do  I  like  Ireland,  do  you  mean?"  she  asked, 
and  that  was  the  first  time  properly  that  I  heard  her 
voice.  It  was  a  whisper,  full  of  timidity.  I  had  to 
bend  my  head  to  catch  the  words,  and  they  sounded 
like  the  steps  of  feet  in  satin  slippers  through  some 
far-off  corridor  of  an  old  house.  This  is  my  way  of 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  95 

describing  things.  It  may  mean  nothing  to  you.  I 
only  know  I  heard  the  tiny  heel  taps,  and  uncon- 
sciously I  lowered  my  voice  to  answer  to  them. 

"  No,"  said  I,  and  my  voice  ran  almost  to  a 
whisper  too.  "  No  —  I  did  n't  mean  that.  You  're 
shut  up  all  day  in  that  room  with  the  white  lace 
curtains.  I  don't  suppose  you  can  either  like  or  dis- 
like Ireland.  You  never  see  it.  No  — •  I  meant  what 
I  said.  Are  you  happy  in  Ireland?  " 

I  swear  if  I  had  not  said  it  in  a  whisper  it  would 
have  frightened  her.  As  sure  as  Fate,  she  would 
have  run  away.  But  because  I  whispered  —  by  the 
chance  of  God,  too,  perhaps  —  she  just  spoke  out  of 
her  little  heart  and  told  me  she  was  not 

It  was  so  simple  and  so  genuine  an  admission  that, 
though  I  knew  it  well,  I  was  still  utterly  unprepared 
to  hear  her  confess  it.  It  took  me  completely  by  sur- 
prise. I  found  myself  marvelling  at  her  ingenuous- 
ness, for,  as  you  must  know  well,  it  was  so  unlike 
her  sex,  who  will  seldom  admit  to  any  emotion  but 
what  does  justice  to  their  appearance,  and  never  will 
they  confess  it  to  a  total  stranger. 

It  disarmed  me.  Had  she  said  she  was  happy, 
indeed,  I  could  have  gone  on  gaily,  knowing  what  I 
believed.  But  there  is  no  so  violent  an  interruption 
to  conversation  as  the  sudden  truth.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments it  left  me  in  silence.  I  could  not  have  believed 
it  possible  that  she  was  so  unhappy  as  that,  and  all 
through  my  mind  there  surged  an  overwhelming  tide 
of  bitter  resentment  against  those  who  were  the  cause 


g6  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

of  it.  I  cursed  that  young  cub  in  England  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  I  have  no  doubt  my  eyes  had  a 
ludicrous  expression  in  them  as  I  glanced  at  the  Miss 
Fennells  before  us. 

"  What  makes  you  unhappy?  "  I  asked,  at  length. 

She  looked  nervously  about  her  as  though  there 
might  be  listeners  everywhere. 

"  It 's  not  like  where  I  come  from.  It 's  all  so 
dark  and  grey.  It  was  so  bright  in  Dominica.  I 
know  the  sun  shines  here,  like  it  did  to-day  —  but 
it 's  so  different." 

"  White  lace  curtains  make  a  difference,"  said  I. 
"  So  do  black  dresses.  Why  don't  you  wear  your 
canary-colored  satin?  " 

For  just  one  instant,  she  stopped  quite  still.  I  was 
almost  sure  that  I  had  frightened  her  too  much;  but 
perhaps  it  was  only  with  curiosity  that  her  eyes  burnt 
through  that  thick  impenetrable  veil.  Of  course,  she 
was  curious.  I  guess  how  her  heart  set  beating 
straight  away. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  satin  dress?  "  she 
asked,  as  we  walked  on  again. 

"  I  know  a  lot,"  said  I;  and  then  it  seemed  to  me 
the  moment  I  had  been  waiting  for.  I  took  the  letter 
from  my  pocket. 

"  Are  you  good  at  keeping  secrets?  "  I  asked. 

She  bent  her  head.  Every  one  is  good  at  keeping 
secrets,  but  you  must  ask  them  first.  They  never 
know  how  good  they  are  until  they  are  waiting  for 
a  secret  to  be  told. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  97 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  read  this  letter,"  I  went  on. 
"  Don't  let  the  Miss  Fennells  see  it.  Tuck  it  away 
into  your  dress.  Read  it  to-night,  and  when  you  can, 
let  me  have  an  answer.  I  don't  know  how  you  can 
manage  it;  you  must  find  that  out  for  yourself;  but 
let  me  have  an  answer.  I  shall  stay  here  in  Bally- 
sheen  till  I  get  it.  You  heard  my  name,  did  n't  you? 
Bellairs  —  I  'm  staying  with  the  Townshends.  Send 
the  answer  there  —  to  their  house  —  if  you  can." 

So  I  gave  Clarissa  the  letter.  I  saw  her  bury  it  in 
the  stiff  bodice  of  that  black  prison  dress  where  her 
heart  beat  warm  against  it. 

I  had  given  it  only  just  in  time.  A  few  more  paces 
and  we  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  cliff  path.  Here, 
as  you  know,  it  broadens  to  a  wide  road  and  the  wall 
begins,  protecting  the  field  where  stands  the  Miss 
Fennells'  house. 

By  clever  manoeuvring  they  made  us  all  come  into 
line,  and  we  walked  the  remainder  of  the  distance, 
talking  of  such  ordinary  things  as  the  Miss  Fennells 
are  conversant  with.  Their  range  of  topics,  I  must 
admit,  is  most  limited  even  then.  When  we  had  said 
good-night  and  I  had  felt  the  first  touch  of  Clarissa's 
hand  —  a  slight  hesitating  little  hand  it  is  —  Bell- 
wattle  and  I  walked  home. 

She  said  not  a  word  to  me.  That  is  so  wise  in 
women.  However  wrong  in  fact  their  guessing  may 
be,  there  is  a  fundamental  instinct  of  right  about  it 
which  tells  them  what  the  circumstances  demand.  A 
man,  guessing  as  she  had  been,  would  have  poured 


98  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

questions  upon  me,  asking  me  what  I  thought  of 
Clarissa,  and  not  because  he  was  curious,  but  only  to 
find  out  if  he  were  right.  Now,  a  woman  never  does 
that.  To  begin  with,  she  knows  she  is  right,  and, 
filled  as  she  is  with  curiosity,  she  asks  no  questions. 
She  just  finds  out. 

So  Bellwattle  said  nothing.  She  just  let  me  think. 
And  over  and  over  again  I  thought:  "  Will  she  go 
home  if  I  tell  her  to?  Will  she  go  home  if  I  tell 
her  to?" 

But  there  was  a  little  thought  that  kept  creep- 
ing in  between  each  one  of  those  questions.  '  Will 
she  ever  go  home  if  I  tell  her  to?  "  I  said  to  my- 
self, and  then  I  thought  how  warm  that  letter  would 
be  when,  in  the  secrecy  of  her  bedroom,  Clarissa 
should  take  it  from  her  dress  to  read.  And  the  more 
I  asked  myself  the  one,  the  more  I  pictured  to  my- 
self the  other. 

"  It 's  the  very  devil,"  said  I  at  last  to  Bellwattle, 
"  when  you  can't  think  the  thing  you  want  to  think." 

"  Do  you  think  you  really  want  to?  "  said  she. 

Now,  what  the  devil  did  she  mean? 


CHAPTER   XII 

THREE  days  have  run  by,  and  only  that  I  have  had 
no  word  from  Clarissa,  I  have  scarcely  been  conscious 
of  their  passing.  Three  days,  and  we  have  come 
into  a  new  month,  a  more  wonderful  month  even 
than  that  through  which  we  have  just  passed;  the 
most  wonderful  month  in  the  year,  were  it  not  that 
June,  July,  August,  September  and  October  all  follow 
after  it. 

I  watched  a  lark  this  morning  rise  from  a  tuft  of 
thick  sea-grass,  such  as  grows  out  on  the  slopes  of 
the  cliffs.  The  whole  sea  was  of  quicksilver,  throw- 
ing back  the  bright  light  of  a  glorious  sun.  It  spread 
far  out  to  the  line  of  sky,  and  they  met  in  that  haze 
of  heat  which  makes  the  horizon  so  full  of  mystery. 
A  mile  out  from  shore  a  mass  of  gulls  were  croosh- 
ting,  filling  the  distance  with  their  hunger-cries  as 
they  flung  themselves  into  the  melee  fighting  for  their 
food.  I  lay  watching  them,  and  even  from  that  dis- 
tance I  could  see  the  black  body  of  a  cormorant  in 
their  midst,  diving  and  diving  again,  where  the  gulls 
could  only  feed  upon  the  surface.  He  reminded  me 
of  the  people  who  eat  in  the  London  restaurants, 
who  have  five  meals  a  day;  the  people  who  are  able 
to  dive  into  their  pockets  and  pay  for  food  they 


ioo  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

never  want,  while  the  match-sellers  and  the  flower- 
sellers,  the  crossing-sweepers  and  the  beggars  out- 
side are  whispering  their  hunger  cries  like  the  gulls 
upon  the  surface. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  don't  like 
the  cormorant,"  I  said  to  Bellwattle. 

She  was  lying  back  on  a  bed  of  heather  roots. 
Her  eyes  were  closed.  She  might  have  been  asleep. 
I  said  it  softly,  therefore,  lest  it  should  wake  her. 
She  did  not  open  her  eyes,  but  she  answered  me. 

"That's  a  man  who  eats  too  much,  isn't  it?" 
said  she. 

Of  course,  it  may  be  that  she  had  read  my  thoughts 
before  I  uttered  them.  I  judge  her  quite  capable  of 
it.  It  was  better  than  thinking  she  did  not  know. 

"  That 's  why  I  don't  like  him,"  said  I.  "  Sit  up 
a  minute.  You  can  see  one  there  in  that  crowd  of 
gulls.  He  keeps  diving  down  and  gorging  himself 
in  the  underground  grill-room  while  all  those  poor 
wretches  are  shivering  on  the  pavement." 

She  sat  up  quickly,  looking  at  me  in  amazement. 

"  Whatever  are  you  talking  about?  "  said  she. 

'That  cormorant,"  I  replied — "  in  the  midst  of 
those  gulls." 

"  But  I  thought  a  cormorant  was  a  man  who  ate 
too  much." 

"  So  he  is  —  he  's  a  bird  as  well." 

"  But  we  call  those  billy-divers." 

"  It  would  make  no  difference  if  you  called  them 
English  gentlemen,"  said  I. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  101 

She  began  to  try  and  think  it  out;  but  in  the  midst 
of  her  meditation,  she  saw  a  rabbit  sitting  on  an 
ant-hill,  brushing  its  nose. 

"  Look  —  there  's     a     rabbit,"     she     whispered. 

"Look  at  his  little  white  tail !    And  there  's  another 

—  further  on.    Why,  there  are  hundreds  of  them!  " 

I  followed  the  direction  of  her  finger,  and  sure 
enough  there  were  two  rabbits. 

"  I  wonder  why  it  is  permissible,"  I  began,  "  for 
a  woman  to  talk  in  hundreds  of  what  she  only  sees 
in  twos?  " 

'  Well  —  I  expect  there  are  hundreds,"  said  Bell- 
wattle. 

I  admitted  the  truth  of  every  word  she  said. 

"  If  there  are  two  rabbits,  there  are  bound  to  be 
hundreds,"  said  I.  "  It 's  the  nature  of  the  beast." 

'  The  creatures !  "  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  finding 
it  in  her  heart  to  be  mother  unto  all  of  them. 

*  The  only  thing  I  regret,"  I  continued,  "  is  that 
I  can't  see  them  with  such  generosity  of  sight  as 
you  do." 

She  closed  that  one  eye  again,  the  eye  that  betokens 
her  suspicion,  and  looked  at  me.  When  I  betrayed 
nothing,  she  lay  back  on  her  bed  of  heather  roots 
once  more  and  at  that  moment  the  lark  shot  up 
from  his  tuft  of  sea-grass  and  went  soaring  away  and 
away  —  up  into  the  still  blue  of  the  vault  of  heaven. 

There  is  nothing  in  life  quite  to  equal  it,  that  song 
and  flight  of  the  lark;  nothing  quite  so  magnificent  in 
its  simplicity.  If  the  grandeur  of  monarchy  were  as 


IO2  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

simple  as  this,  there  would  be  no  need  of  revolution ; 
if  the  simplicity  of  republics  could  ever  be  so  grand, 
there  would  be  no  need  of  kings. 

I,  too,  lay  down  upon  my  back,  with  my  hands 
clasped  loosely  behind  my  head  and  watched  him 
climb,  quivering  step  by  quivering  step,  up  that  long 
ladder  of  light.  And  ceaselessly  with  every  breath, 
in-taken  or  out-spent,  he  poured  forth  his  tireless 
song  of  praise.  Up  into  the  bright  air  that  song  rose 
with  him;  then,  like  a  fountain  playing  in  the  heat, 
fell  fast  in  glittering  drops  of  sound  that  splashed 
upon  our  ears  till  we  were  drenched  in  it. 

"  I  wonder  who  taught  him,"  said  Bellwattle, 
presently,  below  her  breath. 

"  Surely  there  's  no  teaching  in  that,"  I  replied. 
"  It 's  just  the  unlearnt  power  to  be  one's  self.  If  a 
man  could  make  his  home  of  dried  grass  and  twigs 
and  be  content  to  build  it  fresh  with  every  year;  if 
he  could  live  so  close  to  the  earth  and  be  so  little 
chained  to  it  —  he  could  do  something  as  simply  and 
as  grandly  as  that  without  being  taught." 

Bellwattle  looked  round  at  me.  There  is  a  quality 
in  her  which  is  truly  engaging.  Whenever  one  talks 
seriously  to  her,  she  takes  it  seriously.  She  takes  it 
literally,  too. 

'  Would  he  be  able  to  sing  like  that?  "  she  asked. 

*  There  are  some  men  I  know,"  said  I,  "  who 
would  n't." 

"What  could  he  do,  then?" 

"  Among  other  things,  be  contented." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  103 

"  Why  don't  you  live  like  that,  then?  "  she  asked. 
"  Cruikshank  does.  I  don't  think  he  'd  care  if  the 
house  fell  to  the  ground  to-morrow." 

"  So  long  as  his  garden  was  not  destroyed,"  I 
suggested. 

"  No,  he  would  n't  mind  if  his  garden  was  ruined, 
too.  It 's  making  a  garden  he  likes.  Building  his 
nest  afresh,  I  suppose.  There  's  a  little  cottage  up 
behind  the  farm  that  belongs  to  us.  It  stands  in  a 
hollow  on  the  cliffs.  I  '11  show  it  you  one  day.  He  's 
going  to  make  a  garden  there.  If  he  were  ship- 
wrecked on  a  desert  island,  he  'd  begin  the  next  day 
to  choose  a  site.  Is  it  site?  How  do  you  spell  it? 
S-i-g-h-t?" 

"  It  can  be  spelt  that  way,"  said  I. 
'  Well,  it 's  very  silly,"  she  continued.    "  I  should 
have  spelt  it  c-i-t-e.     Can't  see  what  they  want  the 
g-h  for.     But  that 's  what  he  'd  do  anyhow  —  look 
out  for  a  site  for  his  garden,  the  very  next  day." 

"  And  if  you  were  shipwrecked  with  him,"  I  asked, 
"  what  would  you  do?  " 

'  Would  there  be  any  animals  on  the  island?  "  she 
inquired. 

"  Most  likely  —  little  monkeys,  parrots." 

"  Little  monkeys !  I  should  be  all  right.  Besides, 
there  's  Cruikshank.  When  he  's  making  a  garden 
he  's  just  too  sweet  for  anything.  He  talks  about  it 
as  if  he  was  building  a  city,  and  we  make  out  where 
all  the  flowers  are  going  to  live.  It 's  like  being  God 
in  little  —  making  the  whole  world  over  again." 


IO4  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  He  described  it  like  that  to  me  once." 

"  He  always  feels  it  like  that  —  so  do  I." 

I  turned  away,  letting  my  eyes  set  out  to  that  far 
line  of  sky  and  sea,  for  again  I  felt  the  sense  of 
covetousness  stealing  over  me.  It  was  just  the  same 
as  when  I  had  envied  my  electrician  and  his  little 
nursery  maid.  Now  I  was  envying  Cruikshank  and 
his  Bellwattle,  grudging  them  nothing  it  is  true,  yet 
wishing  I  had  won  their  secret  of  things,  that  I  could 
make  the  magic  garden  of  contentment  as  undoubt- 
edly as  had  they. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  suddenly,  sitting  up  as 
she  spoke  and  resting  her  chin  upon  her  knees.  "  Do 
you  know  I  believe  London  is  not  really  a  place  to 
be  happy  in.  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  I 
know  what  I  mean.  I  always  lived  in  London,  you 
know,  until  we  married.  I  was  born  in  London." 

"  And  you  were  never  happy?  " 

"Oh  —  I  Ve  had  the  jolliest  times  imaginable  — 
splendid  times." 

"  Well  —  is  n't  that  being  happy?  "  said  I. 

She  paused  for  just  a  moment  and  then,  with  an 
emphatic  shake  of  her  head,  she  said  "  No !  " 

"  Could  they  really  have  been  splendid  times?  " 
'Yes  —  yes  —  they  were  splendid.  I  shall  never 
have  times  like  them  again.  They  made  me  forget 
everything.  Oh,  why  is  it  so  difficult  to  explain? 
But  it  is  that  —  it's  just  —  "  She  stumbled,  pite- 
ously  at  a  loss  for  words.  It  was  all  there  within 
her,  bubbling  to  her  very  lips,  dancing  in  her  eyes. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  105 

Only  the  words  were  wanting,  and  in  the  need  of  them 
her  forehead  wrinkled,  all  her  features  screwed  them- 
selves up  into  a  comical  expression  of  pain.  It  was 
not  really  comical.  It  was  more  like  some  dumb 
animal  —  like  Dandy,  in  whose  eyes  sometimes  I 
almost  fancy  that  I  see  tears  because  he  cannot  ex- 
press in  words  the  emotion  which  is  a  torrent  within 
him.  But  at  least  I  understand  what  he  would  say, 
and  when  it  comes  to  such  a  pass  I  tell  him  so.  I 
could  not  tell  Bellwattle.  To  begin  with,  I  did  not 
know  myself.  She  was  driving  towards  some  point 
which  was  vivid  and  real  enough  to  her,  whereas, 
there  was  only  the  dimmest  conjecture  in  my  mind. 
In  such  a  case  it  is  best  to  ask  questions.  Give  her 
something  to  contradict,  and  in  the  excitement  of 
being  misunderstood  a  woman  may  hit  upon  her 
meaning  unawares. 

"  If  they  made  you  forget  everything,"  I  began. 

'  Yes ;  but  don't  you  see !  That 's  just  it !  .You  're 
not  meant  to  forget.  It  is  n't  forgetting  that 's  hap- 
piness. It 's  remembering.  I  can  see  you  don't 
understand  what  I  mean.  I  did  n't  mean  remember- 
ing things  that  have  happened  a  long  while  ago,  but 
being  conscious  —  that's  the  word  I  want  —  being 
conscious  of  things  while  they  're  going  on.  Like  that 
lark  up  there  being  conscious  that  it 's  singing  like 
that;  being  conscious  that  it's  the  first  of  May,  that 
the  sun  's  shining,  that  the  sky  is  blue,  that  the  sea 
is  —  is  like  that  — "  she  pointed  to  it  glittering 
there  below  us.  "  That  —  oh,  that  God  's  in  his 


io6  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Heaven  —  that 's  being  happy.  Trying  to  forget 
everything  is  only  pleasure.  And  that 's  all  they  do 
in  London.  My  splendid  times  were  when  I  forgot, 
not  when  I  remembered.  When  I  remembered,  I 
was  conscious  of  things  —  conscious  that  people  were 
poor  and  starving,  that  I  was  only  just  one  in  a  crowd, 
all  crushing  to  see  something  that  would  make  us 
forget  there  was  drunkenness  and  filthiness  and  crime 
everywhere.  Every  newspaper  placard  in  the  street 
reminded  me  of  it.  The  only  times  when  I  could 
get  away  from  it  were  at  a  theatre  or  a  jolly  good 
dance  or  something  like  that;  then,  I  forgot  —  then 
those  times  were  splendid.  But  I  was  n't  happy.  I 
lie  back  here  now  on  this  heather  and  I  look  up  at 
that  lark  —  miles  and  miles  up  in  the  heavens  and  I 
don't  want  to  forget  a  note  of  it  —  I  don't  want  to 
forget  that  life  is  going  on  all  around  me.  I  should 
hate  to  forget  it,  because  here  it 's  all  wonderful.  If 
any  one  here  committed  murder  it  would  be  whispered 
among  the  villagers  in  awed  voices.  No  one  would 
dare  go  shouting  it  down  the  main  street.  His  own 
mother  would  n't  recognize  him  afterwards  if  he  did. 
Men  get  drunk,  I  know;  they  beat  their  wives,  they 
starve  them,  they  starve  themselves  and  their  chil- 
dren—  life  isn't  any  different,  but  things  like  that 
take  their  proper  place.  If  a  lark  were  to  soar  up 
into  the  heavens  out  of  the  heart  of  London,  there 
would  be  just  one  man  to  see  it,  the  man  who  writes 
to  The  Times;  but  all  the  other  thousands  would 
never  know  of  it.  There  's  no  light  in  London, 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  107 

there  's  no  air,  there  's  no  sound;  it 's  only  darkness 
and  smell  and  noise.  No  wonder  you  want  to  for- 
get when  you  live  there,  and  I  Ve  had  splendid  times 
—  forgetting.  But  I  would  n't  change  it  for  this  — 
this  waking  in  the  morning  and  feeling  another  day 
to  be  conscious  of  everything,  another  day  to  see  the 
sky  and  the  clouds,  another  day  to  feel  the  wind 
from  the  sea  on  your  face.  I  remember  so  well  the 
feeling  of  waking  in  London,  the  counting  up  what 
things  could  be  done  to  make  the  time  wear  out  until 
it  came  to  the  priceless  hours  of  sleep  and  utter  ob- 
livion. Is  oblivion  right?  What  I  want  to  say  is  for- 
getfulness,  but  I  Ve  said  it  so  often." 

She  stopped,  breathless  almost,  with  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  eyes  alight.  I  never  heard  her  talk  like 
that  before.  I  shall  probably  never  hear  her  talk 
like  it  again.  Women  are  unexpected  creatures;  far 
more  unexpected  are  they  than  incomprehensible. 
It  had  never  been  in  the  training  of  her  to  express 
herself;  wherefore,  in  her  own  quaint  ways,  she  had 
thought  these  things  out  in  silence  to  herself,  some- 
times speaking  them  aloud  in  the  mornings  as  she 
dressed,  at  night  when  she  was  going  to  bed.  Cruik- 
shank  tells  me  she  is  one  of  those  who  talks  inces- 
santly to  herself  when  alone.  Sometimes  he  has 
thought  she  has  been  in  conversation  with  some  one, 
but  on  going  to  her  room  has  found  her  alone,  doing 
her  hair,  holding  an  animated  argument  with  her 
reflection  in  the  mirror. 

But  it  was  not  so  much  the  sudden  expression  of 


io8  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

her  thoughts  and  her  philosophy  that  arrested  my 
interest.  It  was  the  philosophy  itself.  Something 
echoed  in  me  that  it  was  true;  that  she  had  found  for 
me  the  secret  of  my  discontentment.  I  wanted  to 
pursue  it  then,  at  once;  for  philosophy  is  an  elusive 
thing.  Often  your  fingers  may  clutch  just  the  hem  of 
its  garment  and  still  it  escapes  your  grasp. 

"  Then  here,"  said  I,  "  do  you  never  forget?  Are 
you  always  remembering —  always  being  conscious?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  emphatically. 

"  Always." 

"  How  about  winter?  The  lark  doesn't  soar  in 
winter.  There  are  no  flowers  —  all  the  birds  are 
frightened  and  hungry.  You  never  see  the  sea  or 
feel  the  sun  like  this  in  winter.  Don't  you  want  to 
forget  then?  Wouldn't  you  be  glad  of  a  theatre  or 
a  restaurant — a  street  with  crowds  of  people,  a 
gay  glittering  of  lights  or  the  noise  of  life?  Isn't 
the  whole  world  too  still  in  winter?  Don't  you 
want  to  forget  then  that  you  're  just  one  little  solitary 
two-legged  creature  in  a  wild  desert  of  a  world  — 
don't  you  want  to  huddle  up  close  to  all  the  others 
whose  company  makes  this  life  seem  less  lonely?  " 

She  gazed  at  me  for  a  long,  long  while  in  silence. 

"  That 's  just  what  you  feel  —  is  n't  it?  "  she  said 
at  length.  '  That 's  why  you  live  in  London  on  your 
fifteen  hundred  a  year.  You  like  the  country  well 
enough  in  the  summer —  I  can  see  you  do.  You  love 
it  even  more  than  you  think.  But  in  the  winter,  you 
believe  you  'd  be  miserable.  You  Ve  grown  into  the 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  109 

habit  of  your  theatres  and  your  restaurants  which 
really  you  hate.  Look  what  you  said  about  the 
cormorant.  You  can't  do  without  your  crowds  of 
people,  and  you  tell  yourself  that  human  nature  is 
the  most  interesting  and  most  lovable  thing  in  the 
world.  But  do  you  think  that  you  ever  see  so  much 
of  human  nature  in  a  crowd  as  you  do  in  one  single 
individual?  Do  you  think  if  we  saw  a  whole  flight 
of  larks  —  flight  or  whatever  they  call  it  —  do  you 
think  we  should  appreciate  them  like  we  do  that 
little  fellow  up  there?  " 

'  This  does  n't  dispose  of  winter,"  said  I. 

She  put  her  chin  on  her  knees  once  more,  and  once 
more  she  stared  out  at  sea. 

'  There  is  no  winter,"  she  said,  "  except  in  people's 
hearts." 

'  There  are  no  dead,"  I  whispered  to  myself.  In 
the  suddenness  of  hearing  her  say  it,  it  sounded  as 
true  as  that. 

"  Explain  that,"  said  I. 

"  I  can't,"  she  replied.  "  It 's  just  there  is  no  win- 
ter. It 's  only  a  word  —  like  saying  it 's  twelve 
o'clock.  There  is  no  twelve  o'clock.  It 's  only  that 
the  sun  's  somewhere  or  other.  That 's  just  what  it  is 
in  winter.  In  winter  the  sun  's  far  away  —  it  rains, 
the  sky  is  grey,  the  sea  is  green.  Cruikshank  and  I 
put  on  strong  boots  and  mackintoshes  and  go  out  for 
miles  into  the  country  and  all  the  time  we  keep  saying, 
'  Do  you  remember  the  primroses  in  that  ditch  — 
do  you  remember  the  furze  blossom  on  that  bush?  ' 


no  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Always  '  Do  you  remember? '  and  not  because  they 
are  gone  for  ever,  but  because  we  know  that  in  that 
very  spot  we  shall  see  those  primroses  again,  that 
they  are  there,  warm  under  the  earth,  ready  and  wait- 
ing to  come  up  again,  more  luxuriant  "  —  she  screwed 
up  her  face  over  this  word  —  "  more  luxuriant  than 


ever." 


4  You  're  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  I,  suddenly. 
What  a  fool  I  was.  That  broke  the  spell  of  it  all. 
For  suddenly  she  remembered  that  she  was  a  woman; 
suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  her  sex.  It  was 
as  though  I  had  thrust  a  gag  into  her  mouth,  had 
frightened  her  into  silence.  I  shall  never  succeed  in 
making  her  talk  like  that  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CRUIKSHANK  has  looked  up  over  the  hedge  of  his 
garden  and,  for  one  moment,  found  the  bitterness  of 
the  world.  I  have  no  doubt  there  is  this  hedge  in 
every  philosophy,  over  which  it  is  dangerous  to  peep 
—  a  curtain  which  it  is  unwise  to  pull  aside.  Then  it 
becomes  a  question,  not  of  philosophy,  but  of  cour- 
age ;  a  question  not  of  mind,  but  of  spirit. 

Such  moments  as  these  are  bound  to  come;  and, 
as  it  has  been  said  of  love  and  of  hunger,  so  well 
may  it  be  said  of  this  —  when  Fear  comes  in  at  the 
door,  then  out  of  the  window  flies  philosophy. 

Notwithstanding  all  his  quiet  and  retiring  habits 
as  a  gardener,  I  should  ever  have  declared  that 
Cruikshank  was  a  man  of  spirit.  But  I  did  not  know 
he  had  so  brave  a  heart  within  him  as  by  misadven- 
ture he  has  shown  to  me  now. 

The  other  afternoon  between  lunch  and  tea,  I  lay 
asleep  on  a  little  square  of  grass  shut  in  by  fuchsia 
hedges  and  surrounded  by  dwarf  rose  trees.  In  the 
middle  of  the  grass  there  stands  a  sundial.  I  have 
found  this  spot  for  myself,  for  though  it  is  in  his 
garden,  Cruikshank  would  never  have  shown  it  to 
me.  When  I  told  him  about  my  discovery  he  said: 


112  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Yes  —  I  know  —  it 's  quite  nice,  but  it  has  a 
feeling  of  sadness  about  it  for  us." 

"  Sadness!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Why,  it 's  almost  the 
sunniest  spot  in  the  garden." 

He  nodded  his  head.  "  Yes  —  yes,"  said  he,  "  I 
know  all  that,  but  a  little  dog  we  had  is  buried  there 
—  a  small  little  chap  that  belonged  to  Bellwattle. 
He  was  nothing  of  a  prize  dog  —  in  fact,  I  don't 
think  he  had  any  breeding  at  all.  He  was  just  one  of 
Nature's  dogs  —  Nature's  gentlemen.  I  think  that 
could  be  said  of  him.  I  found  him  being  beaten  by  a 
tinker  in  the  village  and  I  brought  him  home.  He 
took  to  Bellwattle  like  a  duck  to  the  water.  You 
can  imagine  how  she  took  to  him.  Of  course,  as  I 
say,  he  was  not  a  prize  dog,  but  his  manners  were 
of  the  best.  Though  he  followed  Bellwattle  every- 
where, he  would  never  forget  to  thank  me  every  day 
of  his  life  for  that  little  business  with  the  tinker.  His 
method  of  gratitude  was  quite  original.  He  put  his 
two  paws  up,  scratching  at  me  till  he  got  my  two 
hands  to  hold  them,  then  he  'd  look  straight  into  my 
eyes  for  nearly  two  minutes.  I  don't  imagine  I 
should  have  been  surprised  if  one  day  he  had  actually 
said  — '  Much  obliged.'  I  am  a  firm  believer  in 
the  story  of  Balaam's  ass." 

"When  did  he  die?  "I  asked. 

"  Only  a  few  months  ago.  He  was  quite  young. 
A  motor-car  killed  him  in  the  village.  He  was  afraid 
of  motor-cars.  I  fancy  that  when  the  tinkers  had  him 
they  used  to  set  him  on  to  rush  at  cars  in  the  hope 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  113 

that  one  day  he  might  be  killed  and  they  could  get 
compensation.  They  're  not  fond  of  animals  in  Cath- 
olic countries.  Anyhow  he  seemed  to  be  paralyzed 
with  fright  in  the  middle  of  the  street  just  where  it 
turns  out  of  the  village  on  the  road  to  Youghal. 
The  car  came  round  the  corner,  and  had  I  not  held 
her,  Bellwattle  would  have  been  under  the  wheels 
of  it.  I  just  got  my  arm  round  her  waist  in  time. 
She  struggled  like  the  very  devil  with  me.  But  there 
was  no  saving  him.  I  could  see  that.  It  was  all  over 
in  a  minute.  The  car  stopped  further  on  —  the 
people  got  out.  My  heavens!  You  should  have 
heard  Bellwattle's  language!  Instead  of  becoming 
incoherent,  she  poured  out  the  vials  of  her  wrath, 
never  waiting  for  a  word,  using  them  all  wrong,  no 
matter  how  they  came,  but  letting  those  wretches 
know  just  what  she  thought  of  them.  Imagine  Mrs. 
Malaprop  gone  mad  with  rage.  It  was  something 
like  that." 

Indeed  I  could  easily  picture  it.  I  know  what  she 
must  have  suffered  too. 

"  And  I  suppose  he  's  buried  under  the  sundial?  I 
can  understand  you  don't  care  to  go  there.  I  'd  often 
wondered,  with  her  affection  for  Dandy,  why  she 
had  n't  a  dog  of  her  own.  I  'm  glad  I  never  asked 
her." 

The  next  time  I  got  an  opportunity,  unobserved,  I 
went  back  to  this  little  corner  of  the  garden.  On  the 
base  of  the  sundial,  where  I  had  not  noticed  it  before, 
there  had  been  engraved  the  name  of  this  little 


H4  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

gentleman  of  Nature  —  Tinker  they  had  called  him 

—  and  there  the  sun  above  him  beats  out  its  hours 
upon  the  little  dial  of  brass  —  the  shadow  of  the 
gnome  turns  round,  travelling  upon  the  eternal  circle 
of  its  journey.    A  sundial  is  a  noble  gravestone.     I 
think  I  have  seldom  come  across  more  truly  conse- 
crated ground  than  that  in  which  Tinker  is  buried. 

And  it  was  there,  stretched  out  upon  that  little 
strip  of  grass,  that  I  lay  and  slept  the  other  after- 
noon. Bellwattle's  voice  it  was  that  wakened  me. 

She  was  talking  to  Cruikshank  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fuschia  hedge.  A  garden  seat  is  there  under  the 
nut  trees,  where  once  or  twice  in  the  warm  days  we 
have  had  our  tea. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter,"  she  was  saying 

—  "  what  is  it?    Is  your  indigestion  all  wrong?  " 
My  eyes  half  opened.    My  lips  half  smiled. 

"  My  indigestion  is  never  right,"  said  Cruikshank. 
"  Even  my  digestion  is  not  what  I  could  wish  it  at 
times." 

'  Well  —  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  she.  "  Is 
it  bad?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  what 's  the  matter?    You  're  depressed?  " 

I  began  to  feel  the  sleep  clearing  from  my  eyes.  I 
had  remembered  that  sudden  glimpse  of  Cruikshank 
between  the  curtains  only  a  few  nights  before.  An- 
other moment,  I  should  have  been  sitting  up  and  call- 
ing out  to  them  that  I  was  within  hearing;  but  sleep 
was  there  still  in  every  muscle  of  my  body. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  115 

"  P'r'aps  I  am  depressed,"  said  Cruikshank. 

"What  about?" 

11  You,  my  dear." 

There  was  such  a  caress  in  his  voice  that  I  am  sure 
he  must  have  taken  her  hand  or  laid  his  own  upon 
her  shoulder  as  he  said  it. 

"Me?  I  'm  all  right,"  said  Bellwattle.  "  Why 
should  you  be  depressed  about  me?  " 

"  Because  I  imagine  you  're  not  happy.  Of  course 
I  may  be  all  wrong.  I  may  be  making  a  consummate 
fool  of  myself,  but  it 's  been  growing  in  my  mind 
every  day  that  —  that  —  " 

;'  That  what — ?  "  said  Bellwattle,  and  I  was  just 
preparing  to  sneeze  or  do  something  in  the  conven- 
tional order  of  things  that  they  might  hear  me. 

'  That  you  're  getting  fond  of  Bellairs,"  replied 
Cruikshank. 

There  followed  a  space  of  silence.  I  do  not  know 
how  long  it  could  have  been.  It  seemed  unbearably 
drawn  out  to  me,  and  then,  Bellwattle  laughed  a  low, 
soft,  crooning  sort  of  laugh  —  such  as  a  mother  gives 
to  its  baby. 

1  You  dear,  silly  old  fool,"  said  she. 

"Ah,  but  don't  turn  it  off  like  that,"  he  replied. 
"  I  have  n't  thought  so  for  nothing.  You  go  out  a  lot 
together  alone  and  I  know  how  romantic  those  cliffs 
are.  He  's  a  good  fellow  too  —  a  sterling  fellow. 
Don't  imagine  I  think  he  has  been  making  love  to 
you.  Of  course  I  know  he  has  n't.  I  'm  not  suggest- 
ing so  rotten  a  thing  as  a  flirtation.  Probably  you 


n6  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

neither  of  you  have  dreamed  of  it  yet.  But  I  have. 
You  see  I  'm  an  outsider.  And  if  there  's  anything 
in  it,  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me.  I  would  n't  stand  in  your 
way.  I  don't  think  I  could  blame  you.  I  must  be  a 
dull  dog  to  live  with.  He  sees  more  of  life  than  I 
do  —  he  's  got  more  to  talk  about.  All  I  jaw  about 
is  the  country.  I  can't  talk  of  anything  else.  I  sup- 
pose I  should  understand  it  —  but  I  'd  like  to  know." 

I  dared  not  move  by  this.  If  I  could  have  crawled 
away  without  being  heard,  I  would  have  done  so; 
but  there  was  a  gravel  path  to  walk  down.  They 
would  have  heard  my  footsteps  on  that.  So  I  turned 
over  and  shut  my  eyes  —  tried  to  go  to  sleep  again ; 
but  that  was  out  of  the  question.  I  heard  every  word 
when  Bellwattle  replied. 

"  You  'd  let  me  go?  "  she  said. 

"  If  it  made  you  happy,"  he  replied. 

And  in  that  answer,  in  the  very  tone  of  his  voice, 
I  heard  the  signs  of  the  struggle  through  which  he 
had  won  to  arrive  at  this  generous  spirit  of  renunci- 
ation. 

"  But  do  you  think  it  would?  "  said  she. 

"  I  don't  know." 

Something  happened  then.  I  did  not  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  guess  what  it  was.  Her  arms  were  round  his 
neck  in  an  impetuous  rush;  her  face  was  close  against 
his.  That  at  least  is  how  I  interpreted  the  sounds 
which  reached  my  ears. 

'  You  dear  old  thing  —  why  you  're  more  than 
everything  to  me.     I  don't  want  you  to  talk  of  any- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  117 

thing  but  the  country.  I  love  that  better  than  any 
other  subject  in  the  world,  and  when  you  talk  of  it, 
it  makes  me  feel  that  every  little  weed  is  beautiful." 
Then  she  laughed.  "  And  you  think  I  'm  in  love 
with  that  dear,  nice,  ugly  creature !  Why,  I  should  n't 
imagine  any  woman  has  ever  been  in  love  with  him  in 
his  li-fe.  That 's  why  I  feel  so  sorry  for  him.  A 
woman  would  have  to  get  to  know  him  so  well,  to  for- 
get how  ugly  he  was.  And  no  woman  would  ever 
take  the  trouble.  But  just  because  we  go  out  every 
evening,  you  think  I  'm  getting  fond  of  him.  Do  you 
know  why  we  go  out?  " 

Probably  Cruikshank  shook  his  head,  for  there 
was  no  reply. 

'  You  know  that  invalid  who  's  staying  at  the  Fen- 
nells'  —  the  little  girl  from  the  West  Indies?  He  's 
in  love  with  her.  He  has  n't  told  me  a  word  about  it. 
I  should  think  he  's  too  sensitive  about  his  ugliness 
to  even  say  that  he  was  in  love.  But  he  's  been  trying 
to  meet  her  out  on  the  cliffs,  when  the  Miss  Fennells 
take  her  for  a  walk.  They  met  the  other  night.  I 
suppose  they  Ve  met  before.  I  don't  know  how.  But 
he  's  in  love;  I  can  see  that.  And  she  's  engaged  to 
be  married  to  some  one  else.  Now  do  you  under- 
stand? Oh  —  my  dear  —  my  dear.  Come  along  — 
don't  think  anything  like  that  again.  Come  and  count 
the  buds  on  our  rose  trees." 

I  heard  them  move  away.  I  heard  the  sound  of 
their  lips  as  they  kissed  each  other,  then  I  turned  over 
on  my  face  and  looked  down  into  the  forest  of  grass 


n8  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

stems  where  I  found  a  little  ant  hurrying  impetuously 
along  about  his  engrossing  business.  For  half  an 
hour  I  lay  there  watching  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
I  think  a  divine  Providence  must  have  sent  that  ant. 
It  occupied  my  mind  to  see  him  surmount  all  his  diffi- 
culties. And  then,  just  as  I  watched  him  disappear 
into  a  crevice  of  the  sundial,  I  heard  a  scraping  of 
feet  and  felt  a  rough  tongue  licking  on  my  cheek. 

It  was  Dandy.  I  took  him  by  both  shoulders.  I 
set  him  upon  his  hind  legs,  balanced  awkwardly  in 
front  of  me. 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  I.  "  Right  into  my  face." 
His  brown  eyes  gazed  steadily  into  mine,  so  steadily 
indeed  as  his  attitude  would  permit.  "  How  long  did 
it  take  you  to  know  me  so  well  that  you  forgot  how 
ugly  I  was?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  he  laughed;  then  I  stood 
up,  taking  him  in  my  arms  like  a  baby  —  just  as  I 
had  done  on  his  release  from  quarantine  in  Odessa. 

"  You  're  a  good  fella,"  said  I.  "  You  're  a  damn 
good  fella." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

I  KNEW  that  I  could  not  be  very  far  wrong  when 
I  said  Bellwattle  had  guessed  I  was  in  love.  It  is  so 
like  a  woman.  They  are  incapable  of  climbing  to  the 
summit  of  any  other  conclusion  save  this;  what  is 
more,  they  reach  it  where  no  foothold  for  conjecture 
seems  possible. 

Who  but  a  woman,  from  such  slender  facts  as  Bell- 
wattle  has  acquired  by  dint  of  persevering  curiosity, 
would  ever  imagine  that  I  am  in  love?  Thank  God, 
I  am  not  so  utterly  in  need  of  the  mere  rudiments  of 
understanding.  I  know  the  truth  of  all  that  she  said 
to  Cruikshank.  Women  must  know  me  well  indeed 
before  they  can  come  to  such  tender  thought  of  me  as 
to  forget  that  I  am  ugly.  It  is  true,  moreover,  that 
no  woman  has  ever  taken  the  trouble.  Why  then 
should  I  be  such  a  fool  as  to  plunge  myself  in  love? 

Yet,  as  I  think  over  that  statement  of  hers,  true  as 
it  is,  there  comes  back  into  my  mind  that  evening  on 
the  cliffs  when  first  we  met  Clarissa.  In  the  look  in 
Bellwattle's  eyes,  I  said,  I  felt  the  touch  of  her  hand; 
what  is  more,  it  was  only  a  moment  later  that  she 
stretched  out  her  arm  and  held  her  fingers  for  an  in- 
stant round  my  wrist.  Had  she  forgotten  how  ugly 


I2O  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  was  then?  It  almost  seemed  so.  Then  why  did  she 
say  that  to  Cruikshank?  No  —  I  do  not  understand 
women  in  the  least. 

Anyhow,  she  is  wrong  in  all  her  deductions.  I  am 
not  in  love  with  Clarissa.  It  was  not  with  love, 
when  this  morning  Bellwattle  came  down  the  garden 
with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  it  was  not  with  love  that  I 
felt  a  dryness  in  my  throat,  or  my  pulses  stopped 
and,  with  a  sudden  impetus,  bounded  on  again. 

I  guessed  it  was  the  answer  from  Clarissa.  Well 
—  any  fool  might  do  that.  She  would  not  be  bring- 
ing me  a  letter  arrived  by  post.  Therefore,  my  pulses 
quickened  because  I  was  on  the  eve  of  learning  how 
my  adventure  was  to  progress.  The  cry  of  "  Land 
Ahead!  "  thrills  the  sailor  and  sets  his  heart  a-beating 
no  more  than  did  the  sight  of  this  letter  to  me.  He 
may  not  know  what  land  it  is,  just  as  I  was  ignorant 
of  her  answer;  but  that  the  answer  had  come  and,  to 
the  sailor,  that  land  is  in  sight,  is  quite  enough  to 
stir  the  blood  and  start  it  racing. 

Bellwattle  knew  well  who  the  letter  was  from. 
Her  manner,  her  step,  too,  were  of  the  lightest  as 
she  brought  it  down  the  garden  to  me.  But  there 
was  that  faint  look  of  watchfulness  about  her  which 
no  woman,  not  even  the  cleverest,  can  shut  out  from 
her  eyes.  Could  she  have  seen  how  my  heart  was 
beating,  I  am  sure  it  would  have  added  no  more  to 
her  convictions.  She  knows  I  am  in  love,  and  there 
is  no  more  to  be  said  about  it.  No  doubt  she  read 
my  casual  way  of  taking  it  as  proof  conclusive  of 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  121 

my  guilt.  When,  therefore,  I  slipped  it  unopened 
into  my  pocket  then,  quite  at  her  ease,  with  no  show 
of  curiosity,  but  just  to  let  her  see  that  I  must  not 
suppose  her  completely  without  perception,  she  said: 

"  A  little  girl  brought  it  from  the  Miss  Fennells." 

"  It 's  from  Miss  Fawdry,"  said  I. 

I  think  that  must  have  surprised  her.  She  was  not 
quite  prepared  to  hear  me  admit  it  so  casually  as 
that.  So  surprised  was  she,  in  fact,  to  hear  my  ad- 
mission, that  she  almost  forgot  to  show  surprise  at 
hearing  who  it  was  from.  But  it  came.  It  came 
tardily. 

"  From  the  little  invalid?  "  said  she,  and  her  eye- 
brows lifted  obediently  to  her  voice.  I  am  not  so 
sure  I  did  not  love  her  myself  just  then. 

I  hid  my  smile,  however,  as  I  nodded  my  head. 

"  How  funny !  "  she  continued.  "  Fancy  her 
writing!  She  's  nice,  is  n't  she?  " 

God  bless  all  women! 

"  She  's  very  nice,"  said  I. 

"  I  fancy  she  's  too  good  for  the  man  she  's  en- 
gaged to,"  she  continued. 

"  Most  women  are  that,"  said  I. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  smile  in  her  eye 
was  quite  wonderful. 

"  /  was  engaged  to  Cruikshank  once,"  said  she. 

I  wonder  what  it  is  in  men  to  inspire  such  a  smile 
as  that.  I  think  I  know  why  she  said  it  though. 
Since  the  other  day  she  has  done  a  thousand  little 
things  to  please  him.  She  said  that  to  please  him 


122  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

then,  even  though  he  was  not  there.  When,  then, 
the  moment  of  pleasure  had  passed  —  for  it  had 
pleased  her  too  to  say  it  —  she  came  back  without 
delay  to  her  gentle  inquisition. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  anything  about  herself  the 
other  evening?  "  she  asked. 

"  What  does  a  woman  tell  an  utter  stranger  about 
herself  in  ten  minutes?  "  I  replied.  "  For  the  matter 
of  that  what  does  she  tell  him  in  ten  years?  " 

She  glanced  at  me  sharply. 

"  Not  much,  certainly,  to  an  utter  stranger,"  said 
she. 

I  swear  to  Heaven,  she  believes  I  have  met 
Clarissa  before. 

"Well,  I  take  it,"  said  I,  "that  even  after  ten 
years  a  man  is  little  better  than  that.  How  long 
have  you  been  married  to  Cruikshank?  " 

"  Seven." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  knows  you  any  better  to- 
day?" 

I  watched  with  a  smile  the  little  frown  that  came 
wrinkling  to  her  forehead.  This  was  not  at  all  what 
she  wanted  to  talk  about.  It  did  not  interest  her  in 
the  least.  From  the  moment  that  I  had  mentioned 
Clarissa's  name,  she  had  hoped  that  I  was  about  to 
confide  in  her  the  whole  story.  To  that  end  she  had 
taken  the  conversation  most  gently  by  the  hand  and 
was  leading  it  persuasively  as  you  lead  a  wilful  child. 
But  it  had  struggled  free,  and  with  my  assistance  had 
set  off  in  an  utterly  unexpected  direction.  She  was 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  123 

standing  there,  watching  it,  as  it  wandered  out  of 
sight.  No  wonder  she  was  annoyed.  For  that  mat- 
ter, no  wonder  I  smiled.  I  had  done  it,  and  nothing 
but  force  could  bring  it  back  again  into  the  path 
where  most  she  needed  it.  Now,  force  is  no  argu- 
ment with  a  woman.  She  only  makes  use  of  it  when 
everything  else  fails;  then  she  breaks  into  tears  or 
fans  the  storm  of  her  anger  till  the  clouds  are  heavy 
in  her  face,  and  the  flashes  of  her  eyes  are  more 
dangerous  than  any  lightning. 

But  everything  had  not  failed  her.  If  she  had  lost 
in  her  first  endeavor,  I  am  perfectly  sure  she  felt 
confident  of  ultimate  victory.  The  frown  soon  faded 
from  her  forehead  and,  in  another  moment,  I  found 
it  hard  to  believe  that  I  had  secured  a  victory  at  all. 

"  Cruikshank  's  not  a  person  who  knows  much 
about  women  in  any  case,"  said  she  at  length.  "  I 
think  you  understand  women  better  than  any  man 
I  Ve  ever  met." 

Well  —  there  was  my  victory  gone  from  me  for 
ever.  It  was  the  delivering  up  of  her  sword,  of 
course,  but  she  had  sharpened  her  dagger  on  it  be- 
fore she  placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"  But  Cruikshank  understands  flowers,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  they  are  better  than  any  woman.  Come 
and  see  the  cottage  I  told  you  about  with  the  bit  of 
field  he  's  going  to  make  into  a  garden.  Or  —  I  'm 
sorry  —  perhaps  you  want  to  read  your  letter !  " 

'  That  can  wait,"  said  I.  "  I  'd  sooner  see  the 
cottage."  At  which,  both  knowing  it  to  be  a  most 


124  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

excellent  lie,  we  smiled  each  to  the  other  and  set 
off  through  the  garden. 

Up  a  narow  boreen,  banked  on  each  side  by  low 
walls  of  grass-sod  and  stone  where  grew  violets  and 
primroses  in  the  company  of  moss  and  ladder  fern,  we 
made  our  way  to  Cruikshank's  little  cottage  on  the 
high  land  above  Ballysheen.  Here  there  are  fields 
of  young  wheat,  breaking  in  brilliant  green  through 
the  stony,  unpromising  ground.  There  are  fields  of 
pasture,  too,  that  stretch  away  to  the  sheer  cliff's 
edge  where  the  sheep  browse  and  the  gulls  go  circling 
all  day  long.  So  high  are  you  there,  that  only  a 
mere  ribbon  strip  of  the  far  sea  is  visible,  but  the 
muted  sound  of  it  as  it  swells  upon  the  rocks,  comes 
to  your  ears  in  a  sonorous  sibilant  note,  which  grows 
and  grows  into  the  very  music  of  the  place.  So 
swiftly  do  your  ears  become  attuned  to  it,  that  soon 
you  hear  no  sound  of  it  at  all;  it  is  all  one  motive  of 
the  great,  still  symphony  of  Silence  which  Nature  is 
for  ever  playing  on  her  thousand  instruments  of  string 
and  reed. 

We  had  walked  some  distance  without  exchanging 
a  word,  when  Bellwattle  stopped  and  pointed  to  a 
small  thatched  roof  that  rose  above  a  hollow  in  the 
undulating  land. 

"  That 's  the  place,"  said  she. 

I  stood  awhile  and  looked  at  it  from  there.  It 
was  the  only  habitation  within  sight.  Great  lines  of 
gorse  bushes  clustered  all  around  it,  dipping  down 
out  of  view  into  the  hollow  below.  High  above  it  in 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  125 

the  clear  air  a  kestrel  hawk  hung  poised  upon  the 
wind  and  far  away  along  the  near  line  of  the  land's 
horizon  a  man  was  driving  a  team  of  horses  with  his 
harrow,  while  in  his  wake  there  followed  a  glittering 
white  mass  of  hungry  sea-birds,  twisting  and  turning 
in  the  air  like  myriads  of  paper  pieces  tossing  in  the 
wind. 

"  Is  it  always  like  this?  "  I  asked  presently.  "  Al- 
ways as  big  and  broad  and  grand?  " 

11  Always." 

;'  What  a  brave  blast  of  yellow  there  will  be  when 
the  gorse  is  out!  " 

"  But  has  color  got  sound?  "  said  she. 

"  Sound !  Why,  when  that  gorse  is  all  in  blossom, 
it  '11  be  like  a  thousand  silver  trumpets  ringing  their 
voices  all  day  long." 

"And  the  heather  —  when  that's  out?  All  this 
place  is  one  mass  of  purple.  What  sound  has  that?  " 

I  shook  my  head  and  laughed.  It  is  the  habit  I 
have  noticed  in  her  before,  that  habit  of  taking  one 
too  literally  when  one's  mood  is  serious. 

'  You  're  asking  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you," 
said  I.  "  I  'm  no  expert  in  the  classification  of  colors 
with  the  sound  of  instruments.  You  '11  hear  the  note 
of  it  in  your  own  heart  if  you  listen  well  enough." 

A  pensive  look  came  into  her  eyes.  I  thought  she 
was  trying  to  see  the  heather  in  bloom,  to  hear  in  the 
heart  of  her  that  deep  warm  note  of  sound  which  the 
wealth  of  its  color  plays  into  one's  ears.  She  was 
endeavoring  nothing  of  the  kind;  for  suddenly  she 


126  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

turned  to  me  and,  in  the  most  ingenuous  way  in  the 
world,  she  asked  me  why  I  had  never  married. 

"  In  the  name  of  Godl  "  said  I,  "  what 's  that  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

"  You  ought  to  have  married,"  she  continued. 
"  If  women  have  heard  you  talk  about  things  like 
that  —  the  heather  and  the  gorse  —  they  must  have 
wanted  to  marry  you." 

"  I  '11  try  to  see  the  logic  of  that,"  I  replied,  laugh- 
ing. "  I  '11  try,  during  the  next  few  days,  and  then 
I  '11  tell  you  why  no  woman  has  ever  entertained  such 
feelings  of  regard  for  me.  Let 's  go  on  to  the  cot- 
tage." 

Now,  how  is  one  to  reconcile  that  with  what  she 
said  to  Cruikshank?  I  give  it  up.  I  shall  make  no 
further  effort  to  understand  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  boreen  there  was  a  gate.  Its 
rusty  hinges  whistled  the  lilt  of  an  air  as  I  swung  it 
open  —  that  air  which  is  a  part  of  the  great  sym- 
phony we  hear  all  round  us.  Then  we  were  out  in 
the  open  fields;  the  springy  sea-turf  was  bending  be- 
neath our  feet.  Far  on  and  away  the  rugged  curves 
of  the  coast-line  wound  themselves  to  the  horizon, 
with  here  and  there  a  sleepy  headland  dipping  its 
nose  into  the  glittering  sea.  For  a  moment  or  two  the 
sheep  turned  their  heads  to  look  at  us,  then,  moving 
away  with  slowly  wandering  steps,  they  continued 
their  browsing. 

It  was  here  I  stood  still  again.  The  kestrel  had 
dropped  down  the  wind  and  was  vanished  out  of 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  127 

sight.  Only  the  gulls  were  left,  sweeping  their  end- 
less circles  against  the  blue  radiance  of  the  sky. 
Here  and  there  a  frightened  sand-martin,  darting 
swiftly  through  the  light,  hurried  over  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  to  his  home,  as  though  he  knew  a  hawk  were 
near  at  hand. 

After  a  long  silence,  I  turned  to  Bellwattle  and 
confessed  that  she  was  right. 

"  Right  ?    About  what  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  All  that  you  have  said  when  you  talked  about 
living  in  cities  —  compared  to  this.  This  is  where  to 
live  —  fair  weather  and  foul,  this  is  the  only  sort  of 
place  to  solve  the  riddle." 

"What  riddle?" 

"  Of  why  it  should  be  that  we  must  live  at  all.  In 
a  place  like  this,  everything  answers  it.  You  're  quite 
right;  it 's  not  worth  living  when  you  only  live  to  for- 
get that  you  're  alive.  Here  everything  calls  to  you 
to  remember.  '  Remember  '  is  the  word.  Being  con- 
scious is  only  a  stock  phrase.  People  use  it  in  little 
art  circles  in  London.  '  Remember '  is  the  word. 
Listen  to  that  gull  —  that 's  calling  to  you ;  listen  to 
the  sea  —  every  time  a  wave  breaks,  it 's  the  world 
drawing  in  its  breath.  Pavements  and  houses  are  n't 
alive  like  that.  I  try  in  London  sometimes  to  think 
that  the  houses  talk  to  each  other  —  but  how  can  they 
talk  if  they  never  draw  a  breath!  Look  at  the  sky! 
Look  at  the  sea !  You  're  absolutely  right  —  it 's 
impossible  to  forget  here.  I  'd  give  all  I  know  to 
live  in  that  little  cottage  there  in  the  hollow  and  re- 


128  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

member  the  whole  day  long,  the  whole  year  round. 
But  —  " 

"But  what?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  again. 

"  It 's  not  to  be  thought  of,"  said  I. 

"But  Cruikshank  does  it,"  said  she.  "Why 
shouldn't  you?  Is  the  cottage  too  small  for  your 
fifteen  hundred  a  year?  It  has  four  rooms  in  it. 
We  'd  let  you  have  it.  You  could  make  the  garden 
instead  of  Cruikshank.  Things  would  grow  in  that 
hollow  —  I  'm  sure  they  would.  Why  is  it  not  to  be 
thought  of?" 

I  had  the  temerity  to  lay  my  hand  on  hers,  which 
still  was  resting  on  my  arm. 

"Cruikshank  does  it,"  said  I;  "but  then,  have 
you  forgotten  —  " 

"  Forgotten  what?" 

"  *  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone.' ' 

She  looked  at  me  long  and  earnestly.  I  could  see 
it  in  her  eyes  that  she  would  offer  to  help  me  by 
every  means  within  her  power.  But  the  futility  of  it 
must  have  been  as  apparent  to  her  as  it  was  to  me, 
for  though  her  eyes  were  full  of  eloquence,  she  said 
nothing. 

"  Now  do  you  understand  why  I  live  in  London?  " 
I  continued.  '  Why  I  find  company  and  humanity 
in  crowds?  Nearly  every  morning  I  sit  in  the  Park 
and  make  up  stories  about  the  different  people  who 
pass  by."  Suddenly,  again,  I  thought  of  my  elec- 
trician and  his  little  nursery  maid.  "  Sometimes,"  I 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  129 

added,  "  they  make  them  up  for  me.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  there  and  look  on.  It 's  better  than 
theatres  or  restaurants.  You  must  n't  think  I  find 
them  the  only  resources  of  life  in  a  city.  Certainly 
restaurants  are  my  theatres  sometimes.  The  whole 
business  is  very  much  like  a  4  Punch  and  Judy  '  show. 
You  can  set  it  up  at  the  corner  of  any  street  you  like. 
When  you  come  over  to  London  —  if  you  ever  do  — 
I  '11  take  you  round  and  show  you  some  of  my  little 
theatres.  They  are  all  over  the  place.  Charing 
Cross  Gardens  when  the  band  plays  —  that 's  one  of 
the  best  I  know;  or  any  A. B.C.  shop  at  lunch  time." 

I  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  I  could  not  help 
it.  Her  face  was  so  serious. 

"  Well  —  now  do  you  see?  "  I  concluded;  "  when 
you  're  alone,  forgetting  is  probably  the  best  thing  to 
do,  and  some  ways  of  doing  it  are  better  than  others." 

For  a  moment  she  answered  my  look,  then  my 
laughter,  after  which,  a  notion  suddenly  seizing  her, 
she  left  me. 

"  I  'm  just  going  into  the  cottage,"  said  she.  "  No 
—  you  stay  there.  Sit  down  on  the  grass  and  read 
your  letter,"  and  she  was  gone. 

My  obedience  was  not  implicit.  I  did  not  sit  down. 
Instead  I  walked  to  the  cliff's  edge,  and  there,  with 
all  the  steep  fortresses  of  rock  below  me,  shelving 
down  battlement  by  battlement  to  the  sea,  I  took 
Clarissa's  letter  from  my  pocket  and  read  it. 

They  may  have  taught  her  many  things,  those  two 
old  maiden  aunts,  but  they  have  not  yet  taught  her 


130  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

to  write  or  spell.    It  was  the  quaintest  letter  I  think 
I  have  ever  seen. 

"  Dear  mister  Bellairs"  it  ran.  And  how  it  ran  I 
A  spider's  legs  dipped  well  in  ink  would  scarcely  run 
more  wild. 

"  Theer  is  a  place  out  on  the  clifs  ware  I  went 
wunse  with  him.  I  shall  be  theer  on  friday  at  twelve 
o'clock,  the  miss  Fennells  are  going  into  yawl  it  is 
past  the  furst  hed  of  the  clifs.  Clarissa." 

That  was  all;  but  it  was  enough.  It  was  more 
than  enough.  I  had  not  hoped  for  so  much.  And 
yet,  as  I  thought  of  her  readiness  to  comply  with 
my  request,  I  realized  how  greatly  it  proved  her  love 
for  that  worthless  young  cub  in  London.  For  her, 
a  prisoner,  she  was  risking  much,  just  to  hear  word 
of  him. 

"  Will  she  ever  listen  to  what  I  have  to  tell  her?  " 
said  I,  and,  hearing  my  voice,  Dandy  came  out  of  a 
rabbit-hole  and  looked  up  into  my  face. 

"  There  's  a  rabbit  hiding  down  there,"  said  he. 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn  about  your  rabbit,"  I  ex- 
claimed. "Will  she  listen  to  me  —  that's  what  I 
want  to  know?  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

Now,  of  course,  that  I  know  what  Bellwattle  has 
told  her  husband  about  me,  I  view  Cruikshank  in  a 
different  light.  Now,  moreover,  that  he  imagines  he 
knows  my  little  secret,  he  does  the  same  with  me. 
I  catch  his  eyes  looking  at  me  with  a  cunning  ex- 
pression that  is  humorous,  too,  as  though  he  found 
a  hidden  meaning  in  every  word  I  said. 

'  This  place  suits  your  appetite,"  he  remarked 
the  other  morning,  at  breakfast,  when  I  put  away 
my  empty  porridge-dish  and  fell  to  work  upon  the 
fresh  mackerel  which  had  been  caught  at  sunrise. 
"  You  don't  eat  like  this  in  London." 

Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  he  expects  to  see  me  waste 
away  to  nothing  now  that  he  imagines  I  am  in  love. 
Thank  Heaven,  a  bitter  experience  has  made  me  too 
prosaic  for  that.  I  may  not  be  a  philosopher,  but  at 
least  I  manage  to  live  alone,  which  cannot  be  done 
with  such  romantic  fancies  as  lead  to  starvation  or 
any  such  tricks  as  that.  Indeed,  I  learn  much  from 
Dandy,  whose  deepest  passion  never  diminishes  his 
excitement  when  it  comes  to  the  moment  for  Moxon 
to  throw  his  two  biscuits  on  to  the  tesselated  pave- 
ment in  the  hall.  It  is  he  who  likes  them  thrown. 
At  first  I  had  disapproved. 


132  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Can't  you  put  those  biscuits  on  a  plate?  "  I  once 
said  to  Moxon,  "  instead  of  flinging  the  food  at  him." 

Moxon  took  my  reproach  most  excellently,  and  re- 
plied he  had  begun  in  that  fashion,  but  that  Dandy 
had  shown  signs  of  disliking  the  plate.  It  appears 
he  picked  up  the  biscuits  himself  and  threw  them 
across  the  hall. 

"  As  if  to  make  out,  sir,"  said  Moxon,  "  that  they 
was  alive.  So  I  thought  it  would  add  to  the  illusion 
if  I  did  it  for  him.  I  fancy  myself,  sir,  that  they 
must  taste  nicer  to  him  that  way." 

Of  course,  Moxon  is  a  sentimentalist,  which  I  am 
not;  neither,  for  the  matter  of  that,  is  Dandy.  But 
Moxon  —  well,  I  rather  fancy  myself  that  Moxon 
would  go  down  in  weight  a  bit  were  he  in  love.  He 
is  built  that  way.  Now,  I  am  neither  built  that  way, 
nor  am  I  at  the  present  moment  martyr  to  any  passion 
at  all,  wherefore  I  would  eat  a  breakfast  with  any 
one  and  be  glad  of  it. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  felt  so  keen  an  appetite 
in  all  my  life  as  during  these  three  days  while  I  am 
waiting  for  Friday  to  arrive.  One  thing  only  con- 
cerns me.  Our  meeting  is  to  be  at  twelve  o'clock  — 
midday.  In  all  my  thoughts  of  her  coming,  I  have 
imagined  it  would  be  at  night,  when  she  might  have 
found  excuse  to  escape  from  the  Miss  Fennells  and 
contrive  to  see  me  alone.  But,  no,  it  is  to  be  in 
broad  daylight.  Even  that  heavy  veil  —  which,  in- 
deed, it  is  quite  likely  she  will  not  wear,  since  I  have 
said  I  know  her  eyes  are  well  —  but  even  that  at 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  133 

such  an  hour  will  not  dim  the  quickness  of  her  per- 
ception. She  will  see  me  as  Bellwattle  sees  me,  as 
every  woman  has  seen  me  since  the  first  moment  when 
an  absurd  and  morbid  sensitiveness  induced  me  to 
notice  such  things.  And  then  —  will  she  listen  to  me  ? 
I  leave  it  on  the  knees  of  the  implacable  gods. 

Something  tells  me  that  I  have  not  set  out  upon 
the  wild  errand  of  my  journey  for  nothing.  For  so 
far  do  I  believe  in  Destiny,  that  what  we  do,  having 
within  us  some  definite  purpose  to  accomplish,  is 
ordained  to  a  certain  end.  Some  end,  it  may  be,  so 
foreign  to  our  thoughts,  as  is  impossible  of  con- 
ception; but  a  definite  purpose  will  always  be  a 
weapon  in  the  hand  of  Fate  to  achieve  a  definite 
victory.  I  only  pray  that  mine  may  be  what  I  have 
hoped  of  it.  I  only  pray  that  the  result  of  my  ad- 
venture may  be  the  return  of  that  little  spirit  in  prison 
to  her  home  in  the  burning  heart  of  the  sun. 

I  was  up  early  this  morning,  for  it  is  Friday,  the 
day  I  have  been  waiting  for.  The  sun  beat  down 
upon  my  face  and  woke  me  before  it  was  six  o'clock. 
It  was  then  as  I  lay  there,  with  my  eyes  half  closed, 
that  the  sound  of  a  far  voice  shouting  on  the  cliffs 
came  dimly  to  my  ears.  It  was  arresting,  insistent, 
but  not  enough  to  stir  me.  I  neither  moved  my  head 
nor  opened  my  eyes;  but  I  listened,  sleepily  wonder- 
ing what  it  was. 

Presently  a  voice  from  below  in  the  garden  rose 
compellingly  to  my  open  window. 

"  Bellairs !  Come  down!  There  are  sprats  in  the 
bay  —  they  Ve  got  the  nets  out." 


134  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  jumped  up  from  my  bed  and  looked  down. 
There  was  Cruikshank,  dressed  in  such  garments  as 
served  to  make  him  decent  and  no  more. 

"  Shove  some  things  on,"  said  he,  "  and  come 
along  with  me  as  quick  as  you  can.  I  '11  show  you 
the  sight  of  your  life." 

I  was  with  him  in  a  moment,  and  we  were  hurry- 
ing along  to  the  cliffs. 

"  Where  's  Bellwattle?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  the  garden.  She  won't  come  and  look  at 
these  things.  I  tell  her  fish  have  no  nerve  centres, 
that  they  feel  nothing;  but  it 's  no  good.  She  sees 
them  wriggle  and  that 's  enough  for  her.  Ever  seen 
a  haul  of  sprats?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  My  Lord!  "  said  he,  and  in  that  exclamation  he 
spoke  more  for  the  sight  of  it  than  if  he  had  talked 
for  hours.  The  silence  that  followed  filled  my  imagi- 
nation, till  suddenly  he  broke  it. 

"  Bellwattle  says  you  're  going  to  take  the  cottage 
in  the  hollow,"  he  declared. 

I  opened  my  eyes  wide  and  laughed. 

"  She  told  you  that  as  a  fact?  "  said  I. 

"Yes." 

"  When  do  I  take  possession?  " 

"  Next  year." 

I  laughed  again. 

"Well  —  what  do  you  think  about  it?"  said  I. 
"  Do  you  approve?  " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted.    You  must  let  me  help  you 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  135 

to  make  the  garden.  Only  suggest  —  here  and  there. 
I  know  just  what  can  be  done  with  it." 

"  But  do  you  really  believe  that  I  am  going  to  take 
it?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  She  says  so.  I  suppose  she  knows  what  she  's 
talking  about." 

"She  said  so —  seriously?" 

"Yes  — quite." 

Now  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  does  she  mean? 
She  is  not  one  of  those  women  who  talk  for  the  sake 
of  talking.  I  have  been  out  with  her  on  the  cliffs 
when,  for  long  stretches,  she  has  been  silent,  and 
that,  not  for  want  of  things  to  say,  but  because 
there  have  not  been  words  good  enough  to  say  them 
with.  Then  what  does  she  mean  when  she  tells 
Cruikshank  that  next  year  I  am  going  to  take  the 
cottage  in  the  hollow?  ' 

"  Don't  say  anything  about  that,"  he  added. 
"  I  Ve  just  remembered  that  she  told  me  I  was  not 
to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  you." 

Then  it  is  really  true,  so  far  as  she  is  concerned. 
She  really  thinks  of  it  as  of  some  definite  event 
that  will  ultimately  take  place.  Upon  my  soul,  the 
wiles  and  ways  of  women  exceed  the  steepest  flights 
of  my  imagination.  I  had  told  her  it  was  out  of  the 
question;  she  declares  to  Cruikshank  it  is  a  certain 
fact. 

However,  there  was  no  time  to  wonder  about  it 
then.  We  had  come  up  the  cliff  road,  past  the 
fishermen's  cottages  and  there,  beyond  the  pier,  by 


136  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

the  steep  purple  rocks  of  sandstone,  of  which  all 
this  coast-line  is  composed,  there  was  the  boat  put- 
ting out  with  the  nets,  racing  through  the  water,  the 
great  sweeps  bending  from  their  wooden  rowlocks 
with  the  sudden  power  of  every  stroke.  It  is  this, 
this  moment  of  casting  the  net  at  the  stentorian 
command  of  him  who  stands  high  upon  the  cliff 
above,  it  is  this  moment  which  is  the  most  critical  of 
all.  For  hours  they  may  have  waited,  knowing  that 
fish  are  in  the  bay.  For  hours  —  I  have  seen  them 
since,  with  the  boat  lying  idly  on  the  tranquil  waters, 
the  men  dozing  lazily  at  their  oars,  while  high  above 
them  is  that  watchman  the  one  man  alone  in  all  the 
village  whose  keen  eye  can  follow  the  passage  of 
the  school  —  for  hours  they  will  wait  in  easy  idleness 
as  he  sits  there  on  guard  about  them,  his  chin  resting 
rigidly  upon  his  knees,  his  sombrero  hat  pulled 
heavily  down  above  his  eyes,  motionless  and  silent 
as  a  piece  of  statuary  which  the  rough  hand  of  Na- 
ture has  carved  out  of  such  living  marble  as  is  only 
hers  to  mould. 

I  have  sat  by  his  side  and  spoken  to  him,  but  he 
never  answers.  I  have  tried  to  see  with  his  eyes  the 
intangible  tone  upon  the  water  which  these  myriad 
creatures  make  in  their  frightened  passage  to  escape 
from  the  thousand  enemies  pursuing  them,  but  never 
a  sign  have  I  seen.  The  eyes  of  God  are  set  in  the 
hollows  of  his  head,  for  so  it  seems  to  me  must  the 
Omnipotent  Power  sit  silently  upon  the  great  cliffs  of 
Time  noting  the  struggles  and  the  passages  of  all  the 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  137 

countless  little  creatures  that  fill  the  vast  sea  of  this 
world. 

But  he  is  not  silent,  this  watchman,  for  long.  A 
moment  in  his  vigil  comes  when  the  muscles  of  his 
face  begin  to  twitch  and  tremble.  Another  instant 
and  he  is  upon  his  feet,  shouting  in  guttural  Gaelic 
to  the  men  in  the  boat  below.  With  his  hat,  now 
crushed  within  his  hands,  he  waves,  gesticulates  and 
cries  his  orders  from  the  cliffs  above  the  sea,  and  in 
swift  obedience  to  his  voice  that  echoes  and  re-echoes 
from  the  giant  walls  of  rock,  the  men  put  out  from 
the  shore.  In  a  moment  the  mighty  sweeps  are 
straining  back  to  the  long,  deep  stroke,  the  little 
wave  of  water  rises  at  the  nose  of  the  boat  and  swells 
and  swells  as  she  makes  her  speed,  while  in  the  stern 
there  stands  one  of  those  swarthy  fishermen,  heaving 
overboard  the  coils  and  coils  of  dusky  nets  that  sink 
down  and  away  into  the  green  water,  leaving  be- 
hind their  little  studs  of  floating  cork  to  mark  the 
circle  they  have  bound. 

That  is  a  moment  then !  A  moment  when  it  seems 
the  business  of  the  whole  world  might  cease  to  let 
this  thing  be  done.  And  then  the  net  is  thrown  at 
last.  Without  delay  they  set  themselves  to  haul  it  in. 

Cruikshank  was  not  far  wrong.  It  was  a  sight  I 
shall  ever  remember,  the  casting  and  the  drawing  of 
those  nets  on  that  still  May  morning  after  sunrise, 
when  even  the  sea  was  scarce  awake.  By  the  time 
we  reached  the  rocks,  that  great  circle  of  floating 
corks  had  narrowed  down  to  so  confined  a  space  that 


138  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

the  fish  were  leaping  from  the  water  in  their  efforts 
to  be  free.  Every  man  there  had  the  bright  light 
of  excitement  in  his  eyes  and,  as  he  lashed  the  water 
with  his  oar,  driving  the  fish  far  back  into  the  re- 
lentless prison  of  the  net,  one  of  the  fishermen  sang 
the  lilt  of  a  strange,  barbaric  song  below  his  breath. 
Splash  —  splash  went  the  oar  like  a  giant  metro- 
nome, beating  the  pulse  to  his  song. 

And  then  the  last  phase  of  it,  the  boats  surround- 
ing that  great  basin  of  the  net,  men  ladling  out  the 
fish  from  the  hissing  water,  filling  the  boats  until 
they  stood  knee-deep  in  molten,  running  silver,  and 
the  gunwales  sunk  lower  down  and  lower  into  the 
sea.  How  exhaustless  it  seemed,  that  mine  of  glit- 
tering metal!  Again  and  again  they  plunged  their 
great  ladles  into  the  bright  green  water;  again  and 
again  they  brought  them  forth  heavy  with  the  burden 
of  such  glory  of  riches  as  I  have  never  seen.  My 
eyes  were  filled  with  silver  and  emerald  —  emerald 
and  silver,  they  seemed  the  only  colors  in  the  world. 

It  is  over  and  done  with  all  too  soon.  All  too 
soon  the  nets  are  shaken  out  and  the  boats  go  toiling 
back  —  barges  of  silver  bullion  —  to  their  little 
market-place  by  the  pier.  And  then  those  white- 
winged  scavengers  of  the  sea,  the  shrieking,  hungry 
gulls  are  all  that  are  left  to  mark  the  spot  where  God 
has  given  one  mighty  handful  of  His  treasure  for  the 
needs  of  men. 

I  stood  there  for  a  moment  watching  them  as  they 
flung  themselves  upon  the  water  for  the  crumbs  of 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  139 

silver  which  had  fallen  from  the  rich  man's  coffers. 
Again  I  turned  my  head  for  the  last  sight  of  the 
heavy-laden  boats  as  they  swung  out  of  view  around 
the  corner  of  the  pier.  The  next  moment  they  were 
gone.  The  whole  place  was  quiet  once  more.  I 
looked  about  me.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  what 
I  had  just  beheld  was  anything  other  than  a  waking 
dream.  Then  Cruikshank  stooped  down,  and  from 
a  pool  of  water  collected  in  the  hollow  of  a  rock,  he 
picked  up  one  of  the  little  fish  that  had  escaped. 
With  a  gentle  hand  he  flung  it  back  into  the  sea,  and 
we  both  watched  it  as  it  floundered  for  a  moment 
helplessly  upon  the  surface. 

'  That  gull 's  getting  it !  "  said  I,  as  I  saw  the  great 
wings  swoop  down,  but  with  an  effort  the  fish  turned 
and  dived.  We  saw  it  shooting  down,  a  little  glitter- 
ing arrow  of  light,  into  the  unfathomable  depths  of 
green.  Deeper  and  deeper  it  went  until  it  was  but  a 
twinkling  silver  point,  then  the  shadows  swayed  over 
it  and  it  was  gone. 

"  I  have  acquitted  myself,"  said  Cruikshank. 

I  looked  at  him  for  explanation. 

"  Bellwattle  will  ask  me  if  I  saved  any  of  the 
sprats.  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  her  the  truth  for  a 
change." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  half-past  eleven.  I  had  heard  the  little 
tinkling  chime  of  it  from  the  open  drawing-room 
window  as  I  stood  out  in  the  garden. 

Now,  whether  it  were  intuition  or  no,  I  cannot 
guess,  but  at  that  moment  came  Bellwattle  to  me, 
pulling  off  her  garden  gloves. 

"  Come  round  the  cliffs,"  said  she,  "  and  have  an- 
other look  at  the  cottage  in  the  hollow?  " 

"  Will  it  look  any  different  to-day?  "  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

'  Just  the  same." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  I  shall  be  more  inclined  to 
take  it  if  I  see  it  again?  " 

"  It 's  quite  possible,"  she  laughed;  "  but  I  have  n't 
any  real  hopes  of  that.  I  expect  when  you  make  up 
your  mind,  it 's  not  easy  to  get  you  to  alter  your 
destination." 

'  You  mean  determination,"  said  I. 

'  Well,  it 's  the  counterpane  thing,"  said  she. 

I  asked  leave  to  be  amused.  I  felt  my  sides 
shaking.  Bless  her  heart,  for  she  laughed  with  me 
too.  I  suppose  she  knew  she  had  said  something 
very  funny. 

"  Is  n't  it  counterpane  ?  "  she  asked,  for  her  laughter 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  141 

was  not  quite  so  hilarious  as  mine.  There  was  the 
tentative  note  of  query  in  it.  In  mine  was  the  whole- 
hearted acceptance  of  the  fact.  "  What  ought  I  to 
have  said  then?  "  she  went  on,  while  I  sat  down  upon 
the  grass.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  said  — 
counterfoil?  " 

I  groaned.    "  Oh,  don't !  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  "  she  cried,  helplessly. 

"  You  wanted  to  say  counterpart,"  I  replied;  "  and 
even  then  you  'd  have  been  wrong." 

"  I  think  English  is  a  ridiculous  language,"  she 
declared,  at  which  we  laughed  all  over  again. 
"  Well,  will  you  come  to  the  cottage  ?  "  she  added, 
presently. 

In  all  seriousness  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  looked 
her  straightly  in  the  eyes.  "  I  can't,"  said  I. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  'm  going  out." 

"Where?" 

She  saw  me  pause,  I  suppose,  for  the  next  instant 
she  was  apologizing  for  her  inquisitiveness. 

'  You  must  n't  apologize,"  said  I,  "  I  'm  your 
guest.  It 's  only  right  that  you  should  look  after  me, 
and  see  that  I  don't  get  into  mischief." 

"  Well  —  you  must  n't  think  I  want  to  know," 
she  continued,  quickly.  "  I  don't.  I  'm  sure  it  must 
have  sounded  like  common  curiosity,  but  it  was  n't 
really.  I  expect  I  was  surprised.  I  just  asked  with- 
out thinking." 

"  So  you  don't  really  want  to  know?  " 


142  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  No,"  said  she,  emphatically,  and  she  began 
putting  on  her  garden  gloves  once  more. 

"  I  take  it  then,"  said  I,  "  that  you  know  already." 

To  that  she  made  no  reply.  She  walked  straight 
down  to  the  herbaceous  border  where  the  patches  of 
arabis  are  just  beginning  to  put  forth  their  snow  and, 
without  looking  round  again  at  me,  she  began  to 
work  at  those  little  things  which  women  always  do  in 
a  garden  —  those  things,  in  fact,  which  God  and 
Nature  combine  to  leave  undone  for  that  very  pur- 
pose. It  is  only  women  who  are  thoughtful  of  the 
little  things  in  this  world.  That  is  why  it  is  they 
who  are  given  babies  to  bear. 

I  watched  her,  smiling  to  myself,  as  she  gently 
uncoiled  the  tendrilled  fingers  of  a  plant  of  sweet 
pea  that  was  growing  up  the  trunk  of  an  old  apple 
tree.  In  the  back  of  my  mind  I  could  hear  her 
saying:  "  Let  go  —  you  must  let  go  —  it  won't  hurt 
you.  I  want  you  to  grow  up  here." 

Whereupon  she  began  to  train  it  in  such  direction 
as  neither  Nature  nor  its  own  inclination  ever  in- 
tended it  to  go. 

"  I  don't  know  why  Bellwattle  is  a  good  name," 
said  I  to  myself,  "  but  it  is."  Then  with  that  I  called 
to  Dandy  and  we  set  off. 

Whenever  you  may  be  engaged  in  any  adventure, 
it  comes  easily  to  you  to  notice  how  wonderful  a 
place  the  world  can  be.  If  the  sky  is  clear  and  the 
sun  is  shining  on  that  morning  when  you  set  forth 
to  make  mark  in  the  insignificant  history  of  your  life, 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  143 

then,  indeed,  it  seems  as  though  the  heavens  were 
never  so  blue  or  the  sun  so  bright.  If  there  be  clouds 
or  rain,  if  everything  is  grey  in  a  moving  mist,  then 
you  button  the  collar  of  your  coat  tight  round  you 
and  swear  to  yourself  that  never  was  there  such  a 
day  for  doing  things  before.  You  remember,  as 
Bellwattle  would  say,  you  remember  everything. 
The  hedgerows  look  more  beautiful;  there  is  a 
thousand  times  more  of  mystery  in  the  dim  forests 
of  the  long  grasses.  A  wren  hops,  piping,  in  the 
budding  hawthorn,  and  you  tell  yourself  how  every- 
thing is  alive  that  day.  But  everything  is  always 
alive.  It  is  only  you  sometimes  who  are  dead. 

So  I  felt  that  morning  as  Dandy  and  I  set  out  to 
meet  Clarissa.  There  seemed  an  added  touch  of 
spring  in  the  turf  beneath  my  feet.  Dandy  felt  it 
as  well.  No  obstacle  that  came  in  his  way  did  he 
climb.  He  jumped  every  single  thing.  If  I  had  not 
been  forty-three,  I  should  have  jumped  them  all  with 
him.  There  was  no  forgetting  between  Dandy  and 
me  that  we  were  alive.  If  his  expression  of  it  was 
more  strenuous  than  mine,  it  was  none  the  less  real 
for  that. 

In  the  breaking  buds  of  gorse,  in  the  clustering 
sea-pinks  ready  to  bloom  upon  the  unapproachable 
pinnacles  of  rock,  in  the  great  broad  surface  of  that 
glittering  mirror  of  the  sea,  in  the  gentle  sound  of  its 
breathing  and  the  clear,  bright  light  of  air  that  filled 
into  my  lungs  like  a  draught  of  snow  water,  I  felt 
the  wonder  of  the  day  as  I  have  never  felt  it  before. 


144  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

All  the  apprehensions  of  what  Clarissa  might  say 
had  gone  from  me  —  all  the  fear  of  what  she  might 
think  when  first  she  saw  me  in  the  broad  light  of  day, 
seemed  caught  away  into  the  breeze  that  freshened 
round  those  headlands.  I  had  utterly  gone  from  me. 
I  forgot  that  I  was  ugly.  I  forgot  that  pitted  horror 
which  has  disfigured  me  since  I  was  a  little  child  and 
my  mother  clutched  me  to  her  breast  when  I  returned 
from  the  isolation  ward.  For  that  —  since  it  is 
better  that  you  should  understand  it  —  is  why  the 
young  nursery  maid  turned  her  eyes  to  Dandy  that 
day  in  the  Park. 

But  I  had  forgotten  it  all.  I  might  have  been  the 
Apollo  Belvedere  —  a  god,  with  all  those  physical 
qualities  of  perfection  that  a  god  should  have.  My 
heart  was  as  light  as  the  air  I  breathed  and  when, 
in  the  distance,  silhouetted  against  the  glowing  white 
line  of  the  horizon,  I  saw  the  fragile  figure  of 
Clarissa  bent  slightly  as  she  leaned  against  the  wind, 
I  felt  that  I  had  accomplished  what  no  god,  with  all 
the  aids  and  instruments  of  Olympus  at  his  hand,  had 
ever  done  before. 

The  moment  he  discovered  we  were  not  the  only 
people  on  the  cliffs  Dandy  raced  off  to  meet  her.  He 
is  always  my  harbinger,  carrying  messages  of  wel- 
come to  friends  and  enemies  alike.  I  cannot  cure  him 
of  it.  Times  out  of  number  he  has  tried  to  force 
me  to  associate  with  men  whom  I  detest,  and  he  says 
such  things  to  women  about  me  as  makes  me  feel 
absolutely  ill  at  ease.  By  jumping  from  one  to  the 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  145 

other  of  us,  he  endeavors  to  set  up  a  current  of 
mutual  adoration  which,  while  at  times  it  may  not 
be  distasteful  to  me,  is  very  embarrassing  to  the  few 
ladies  of  my  acquaintance.  He  would  have  had  me 
married  a  thousand  times  over  if  he  could  —  but  the 
lady  has  usually  said,  "  Lie  down,  little  dog,"  just  at 
that  very  moment  when  he  has  thought  he  was  within 
a  tail's  wag  of  success.  It  is,  I  know,  because  he  does 
not  realize  my  physical  disqualifications  and,  no  mat- 
ter how  often  I  tell  him  that  I  am  an  ugly  devil,  he 
has  never  learnt  to  believe  it  yet. 

All  the  things  he  said  to  Clarissa  that  morning,  I 
shall  in  all  probability  never  hear.  Whatever  they 
were,  she  listened  to  him.  I  saw  her  bending  down 
and  patting  his  back  as  he  laughed  and  chattered  to 
her  in  that  inimitably  friendly  way  of  his. 

There  was  a  good  distance  separating  us.  I  had 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more  to  walk  along  that 
torturous  cliff-path  before  I  came  up  with  her  and, 
before  I  had  half  accomplished  it,  Dandy  had  re- 
turned to  my  side. 

4  There  's  a  lady  along  there,"  said  he,  nodding 
his  nose  in  her  direction. 

"I  know  —  I  know,"  said  I,  sharply.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  annoyed  that  he  had  reached  her  and 
spoken  to  her  first.  He  is  quick  to  take  these  sudden 
tones  in  my  voice,  as  quick  as  many  a  human  being. 
Wherefore,  when  he  heard  it  then,  he  dropped  back 
softly  to  my  heels  and  trotted  along  behind  me.  A 
moment  later,  I  felt  that  I  had  been  unreasonable,  so 


146  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  looked  back  over  my  shoulder  and  in  a  cheery  way 
I  told  him  that  while  I  was  talking  to  the  lady,  he 
could  go  and  catch  rabbits. 

"  You  can  do  anything  you  like,"  said  I,  "  so  long 
as  you  don't  keep  jumping  on  us." 

Directly  he  heard  the  change  of  tone  in  my  voice, 
he  started  laughing  from  ear  to  ear  and,  taking  me 
without  hesitation  at  my  word,  he  raced  off  into  a 
clump  of  furze  bushes  when  by  that  time  I  had  cov- 
ered the  distance  between  us  and  had  reached 
Clarissa's  side. 

She  was  wearing  a  veil;  but  the  whole  spirit  of  the 
day  was  still  with  me.  I  felt  so  sure  of  myself  and 
my  adventure  that  I  did  not  even  think  to  be  relieved. 
When  then  I  took  her  hand,  it  came  quite  easily  to 
me  to  laugh  with  the  sheer  consciousness  of  it  all  and 
I  found  myself  saying  — 

"  This  is  quite  an  adventure." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NOT  far  from  the  place  of  our  meeting  there  is  a 
rugged  pathway,  winding  down  the  steep  cliff  side  to 
a  table  of  rock  below.  Your  feet  must  be  as  sure  as 
the  feet  of  a  goat  when  you  venture  down  this  narrow 
edge  of  the  world;  but  once  you  have  reached  it,  still 
greatly  high  above  the  sea,  you  may  sit  there  like  a 
sea-bird  in  the  sun  and  never  a  soul  that  walks  the 
cliff-path  up  above  will  dream  of  your  existence. 

It  was  to  this  spot  that  I  persuaded  Clarissa 
to  trust  herself  that  we  should  have  our  talk 
alone. 

"  People  might  come,"  said  I.  "  I  don't  want  you 
to  get  into  trouble." 

The  descent  was  not  quite  so  difficult  as  it  looked; 
though  I  remember  the  first  time  when  I  saw  Bell- 
wattle  disappear  over  the  cliff  side  and  vanish  out  of 
sight,  I  almost  thought  she  had  gone  for  ever.  Now 
I  started  slowly  first,  pointing  out  the  footholds  for 
Clarissa's  little  feet.  Dandy  went  before  us,  doing 
the  journey  six  times  over;  running  back  again  and 
again  to  show  us  how  easy  it  was. 

It  is  wonderful  the  way  an  animal  will  take  for 
granted  whatsoever  situation  may  come  its  way.  He 
asked  me  no  questions  about  Clarissa,  showed  no 


148  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

surprise  that  we  should  know  or  meet  each  other 
there.  The  adventure  it  was  with  him.  The  adven- 
ture it  was  with  me  as  well,  and  the  sense  in  my 
mind  that  this  little  creature,  with  her  shy  and  timid 
voice,  did  not  belong  to  me,  gave  me  all  the  hardi- 
hood of  a  buccaneer,  the  very  daring  of  a  highway- 
man. It  made,  in  fact,  the  thrill  of  a  great  romance 
go  tingling  in  my  veins. 

As  we  came  to  our  plateau  of  rock,  a  white  cloud 
of  sea-birds  —  herring  and  black-backed  gulls,  guille- 
mots, every  kind  and  variety  —  rose  with  a  rushing 
burr  of  wings  from  their  resting-places.  Dandy  stood 
there  bewildered,  looking  after  them,  his  eyes  in  every 
direction  at  once. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  when  we  were  seated,  "  we  can 
talk  here  till  doomsday  without  interruption,"  and 
although  I  heard  the  things  I  said  falling  easily  from 
my  lips,  I  was  by  this  becoming  so  nervous  and  con- 
fused in  my  mind  that  thoughts  would  not  shape 
themselves.  I  could  not  conceive  what  to  speak  of 
next.  It  failed  me  utterly  to  begin. 

It  was  an  odd  little  silence  that  came  between 
us  then.  Even  Dandy  did  not  offer  to  smooth  mat- 
ters out,  for  I  had  told  him  there  was  to  be  no  jump- 
ing. He  simply  lay,  therefore,  full-stretched  upon 
the  rock  where  the  sun  had  warmed  it,  inviting  it  to 
warm  him  in  turn.  And  all  that  time  I  kept  looking 
at  the  sea,  then  at  her,  lastly  at  Dandy,  then  back 
once  more  to  the  sea. 

She  appeared  so  strange  with  that  heavy  black 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  149 

veil  falling  in  folds  from  the  rim  of  her  straw  hat. 
It  seemed  in  my  mind  as  if  I  had  known  her  so  long, 
so  well,  and  yet,  not  even  then,  as  she  sat  beside  me 
on  those  wild  cliffs,  had  I  ever  seen  her  face.  It  is 
not  seeing  a  woman,  to  have  nothing  but  a  hat  and 
a  veil,  a  skirt  and  a  pair  of  boots  to  look  at.  All 
that  I  knew  of  her  was  the  touch  of  her  hand  and, 
much  as  it  may  have  meant  on  our  meeting  that  first 
night  upon  the  cliffs,  it  was  ill-sufficient  for  me  now. 
Indeed,  I  was  not  content  with  it;  so,  leaning  for- 
ward, at  last  I  broke  the  silence,  asking  her  to  take 
off  her  veil. 

"  Surely  you  can't  shut  out  the  sun  for  ever,"  said  I. 

"  I  'm  so  afraid,"  she  answered.  "  If  any  one  saw 
me  and  told  the  Miss  Fennells." 

"  But  no  one  will  see  you  here." 

"  Are  you  sure?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  Why  are  you  so  afraid  of  the  Miss 
Fennells?" 

She  began  a  nervous  interlacing  of  her  fingers. 

"  Am  I  afraid  of  them?  "  she  asked,  ingenuously. 

"You  are  —  but  why?" 

"  I  owe  them  so  much  —  they  Ve  been  so  good  to 
me.  And  they  'd  be  angry  if  they  knew  I  had  been 
seen  without  my  veil." 

"  Why  would  they  be  angry?  " 

I  found  myself  speaking  to  her  again  in  whispers, 
as  you  speak  to  a  little  child  in  the  dark  to  wile  away 
those  first  few  frightening  moments  after  the  candle 
has  been  blown  out. 


150  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Why  should  they  be  angry?  "  I  repeated. 

She  glanced  down  in  hesitation  at  her  fingers. 

"  Because  people  would  know —  " 

"Know  what?" 

"  That  —  that  I  'm  not  quite  a  white  person." 

I  have  never  heard  anything  just  so  simple  in  my 
life  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  have  I  ever  heard 
anything  so  pathetic.  Not  quite  a  white  person! 
Great  heavens,  that  whiteness  or  blackness  should 
mean  so  much  to  us  who  in  each  other  see  the 
imagery  of  God  1  The  blackest  man  and  the  blackest 
woman  I  have  ever  known  were  white.  It  is  the 
color  of  the  heart  that  matters. 

"  Take  off  that  veil,"  I  said  suddenly.  "  Take  off 
that  veil  and  let  me  see.  I  don't  want  to  find  you 
a  white  person  —  it  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

I  don't  know  why  I  spoke  about  myself.  Surely 
too  she  must  have  wondered  at  it  more  than  I.  But 
my  blood  was  hot  with  anger.  Those  old  women, 
with  their  little  ideas  of  family,  believing  one  human 
creature  made  better  than  another,  and  that  by  the 
virtue  of  blind  circumstance,  they  made  me  forget 
what  I  was  saying. 

"  You  Ve  no  reason  to  consider  what  the  Miss 
Fennells  think.  They  '11  count  for  nothing  when  men 
and  women  are  added  up  in  heaven.  Let  me  see  for 
myself.  Take  off  your  veil." 

It  sounds,  I  admit,  as  though  I  had  been  rough 
with  her,  but  it  was  not  so.  My  voice,  I  am  sure, 
was  raised  no  more  above  the  whisper.  It  was  only 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  151 

that  there  must  have  been  a  different  tone  in  it.  And 
surely  in  a  voice,  in  what  not  besides,  that  is  every- 
thing. Whatever  it  was,  she  obeyed.  I  watched 
her  hands  as  they  rose  to  the  knot  in  which  the  veil 
was  tied  at  the  back  of  her  hat.  Her  finger-nails 
alone  would  have  betrayed  her  secret;  but  they  were 
wonderful,  nevertheless.  I  have  seen  small  shells 
on  a  sandy  beach  just  like  them;  shells  wet  with 
the  water  from  the  receding  tide. 

At  last  the  knot  was  loosened.  She  took  away 
the  veil  and  laid  it  in  her  lap.  I  count  that  one 
moment  in  which  I  have  lived,  that  moment  when, 
with  the  sudden  glare  of  the  sun,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  I  was  free  to  look  undisturbed  into  her 
face. 

Once  already  have  I  described  my  imagination  of 
her.  There  is  no  sense  in  going  back  to  speak  of  it 
again.  She  was  all  I  had  thought.  She  was  more. 
The  tender  olive  of  her  skin  brought  no  other  picture 
to  your  mind  than  the  lazy  heat  of  the  Southern 
sun.  Not  a  moment's  suggestion  of  racial  coarseness 
was  there  in  her  features,  but  rather  so  delicate  a  re- 
finement as  made  you  apprehensive  of  what  she  must 
suffer  in  an  ugly  world.  It  was  all  as  I  had  imagined 
it,  even  from  that  first  moment  in  that  restaurant  in 
London,  when  I  heard  of  her  gown  of  canary-colored 
satin.  She  was  as  timid  as  a  little  bird,  with  just 
those  same  quick,  silent  movements  of  fear.  No 
wonder  she  was  afraid  of  the  Miss  Fennells!  No 
wonder  she  had  allowed  herself  thus  willingly  to  be 


152  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

caged.  It  seemed  as  I  looked  at  her  there,  with  eye- 
lids closed  and  turned  to  meet  the  sun,  that  God  had 
made  her  in  such  a  moment  as  when  a  potter,  out  of 
the  sheer  love  of  his  art,  turns  for  himself  alone 
some  slender,  fragile  thing  upon  the  gentle  motion 
of  his  wheel. 

I  knew  then  I  had  been  right.  My  instinct,  or 
whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  had  had  the  light  of  truth 
in  it  when,  on  the  bare  hearing  of  her  story,  I  had 
realized  that  here  was  a  woman  in  trouble.  How- 
ever many  hesitations  I  may  have  passed  through, 
however  often  demurred,  debating  upon  my  right 
to  interfere,  all  such  considerations  left  me  then. 
Her  union  with  any  man  of  the  type  I  had  seen  in 
London  could  mean  nothing  but  tragedy,  nothing 
but  pitiable  disillusionment;  wherefore  my  courage 
rose  triumphant  in  me  again.  I  was  just  waiting 
for  her  eyes  to  open  that  I  might  begin. 

And  at  last  she  opened  them.  I  saw  that  liquid 
blue  white  of  old  china,  with  the  inimitable  pattern 
of  her  great  dark  eyes  set  so  wonderfully  upon  it; 
but  as  I  looked  at  them  and  as  they  looked  at  me, 
it  was  suddenly  borne  into  my  mind  the  everlasting 
remembrance  of  myself. 

The  expression  in  her  eyes  was  not  the  same  as  I 
had  seen  in  those  of  the  little  nursery  maid.  I  had 
never  seen  quite  its  like  in  the  eyes  of  any  woman 
before.  But  I  knew  well  what  it  meant  and  instinc- 
tively, I  suppose,  I  turned  away  and  patted  Dandy's 
head.  He  licked  my  hand  in  return. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  153 

«  Well  —  "  said  I  with  an  effort.  "  Is  n't  it  a 
relief  to  get  rid  of  that  beastly  veil?  " 

I  said  what  I  could  —  the  first  words  that  came  to 
me.  It  would  have  been  cruel  indeed  to  her  had  I 
let  her  see  that  I  had  observed  that  expression  of 
hers.  But  I  am  becoming  adept  at  this.  I  can  look 
at  people  now  as  though  I  were  sure  such  thoughts 
of  me  could  never  enter  their  minds.  I  have  even 
heard  it  said  that  I  fancy  myself  good-looking  so 
unconscious  do  I  appear  to  be.  That,  of  course, 
makes  me  laugh,  for  that  is  truly  funny.  I  often 
remind  myself  of  it  as  a  corrective  for  depression. 

Somehow  this  morning,  however,  it  seemed  I  did 
not  assume  it  so  easily  —  possibly  because  it  hurt  a 
little  more  than  usual.  But  why  —  why  should  it 
hurt  any  more?  Unless  it  were  that,  in  the  pride  of 
my  success,  I  had  forgotten  what,  usually,  I  am  quite 
prepared  to  expect.  And  so  it  was  with  an  effort  that 
I  spoke.  But  when  I  looked  back  again,  because  she 
was  silent,  I  found  her  eyes  dreaming  to  the  far  line 
of  the  horizon. 

"Do  you  take  pennies  for  your  thoughts?"  I 
asked. 

A  faint  blush  burnt  quickly  in  her  cheeks  and  she 
brought  her  eyes  to  earth. 

"Was  I  thinking?"  said  she.  "I  don't  know 
what  I  was  thinking  about." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  I  suggested. 

4  You  could  n't  possibly  know." 

So  there  were  thoughts  and  she  realized  them  well 


154  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

enough  to  know  that  I  could  never  guess  them. 
.Well  —  it  was  something  to  have  discovered  that. 
And  then  I  hazarded  still  further. 

"  You  were  thinking,"  said  I,  "  of  him  in  London 

—  how  handsome  he  is.     You  were  calling  his  face 
back  into  your  memory,  visualizing  every  feature 
of  it  and  trying  to  forget  at  the  same  time  that  other 
women  might  find  it  as  handsome  as  you  do." 

She  gazed  at  me  in  astonishment.  So  amazed  was 
she  that  she  could  not  keep  it  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  think  I  was  thinking  at  all,"  said  she. 
"  Unless  I  was  wondering  what  you  have  got  to  tell 
me.  What  are  you  going  to  say?  How  did  you 
know  about  my  satin  dress?  Did  he  tell  you?  Do 
you  know  him  ?  " 

For  a  long  time  I  looked  at  her,  speculating  upon 
how  it  were  best  to  begin.  When  the  God  of  a  Thou- 
sand Circumstances  takes  it  into  his  hands  to  break 
a  woman's  heart,  he  does  it  often  by  infinitely  slow 
degrees.  The  mills  of  God,  they  say,  grind  slowly 

—  but  I  was  wondering  whether  one  sudden  blow 
were  not  the  kindest  of  all.     And  then  again,  the 
question  of  my  right  to  deliver  such  a  blow  came 
surging  to  my  mind. 

"  It  is  not  I  who  am  doing  it,"  I  said  to  myselt. 
"  I  am  but  one  of  the  links  of  circumstances  which 
go  to  make  the  chain  of  this  child's  existence.  That 
night  in  the  restaurant  in  London  bound  me  into  it. 
It 's  inevitable  that  I  say  what  I  have  come  to  say. 
That  we  are  sitting  here  together  now,  proves  it.  If 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  155 

I  had  imagined  such  a  situation  as  this  suddenly 
possible  when  first  I  heard  that  story  in  London,  I 
should  n't  have  hesitated.  It 's  only  because  I  Ve 
come  to  it  by  slow  degrees  that  I  begin  questioning 
my  right.  Of  course,  I,  myself,  have  no  right.  But 
then,  this  is  not  myself  —  this  is  Fate." 

Wherefore,  so  persuading  my  conscience,  I  found 
determination  to  tell  her  everything. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  to  a  story,"  said  I.  "  It  '11 
hurt  you  to  hear  it.  You  '11  have  to  be  brave  — 
braver  even  than  you  are  when  you  sit  all  day  long 
behind  those  muslin  curtains,  waiting  and  waiting 
and  waiting  for  what  sometimes  it  seems  will  never 
come  to  pass.  I  Ve  come  all  the  way  over  here  to 
Ireland  to  tell  it  to  you,  and  when  I  Ve  finished 
you  '11  think  I  'm  cruel  —  that  I  have  got  some  evil 
motive  at  the  back  of  my  mind;  but  whatever  you 
think  of  me,  it 's  far  better  that  you  should  know." 

It  seemed  as  if  my  words  were  turning  her  to  stone. 
She  did  not  move.  There  must  have  been  some 
apprehension  already  in  her  mind,  for  she  sat  there 
silently,  asking  no  questions,  as  one  who  is  nerving 
herself  for  the  inevitable  falling  of  a  blow  that  long 
has  been  hanging  over  her.  It  was  then  I  hesitated 
most  of  all,  for  suddenly  there  had  come  to  me  a 
picture  of  her  in  tears.  I  have  never,  as  you  may 
well  suppose,  made  a  woman  cry  in  my  life.  No 
woman  has  ever  come  to  me  in  trouble,  and  for  the 
moment  I  mistrusted  myself,  wondering  what  I 
should  do  if  she  wept. 


156  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  You  must  be  very  brave,"  I  said  again,  and  then 
I  told  her  everything;  all  that  I  had  heard  that 
night  at  supper  when  the  glasses  were  tinkling  and 
the  violins  played  their  everlasting  melodies  of  for- 
getfulness. 

Until  that  story  was  finished,  I  dared  not  look  at 
her.  It  was  enough  to  hear  the  silence  with  which 
she  listened.  Every  word  I  uttered  had  the  sound  of 
some  dead  thing  falling  into  the  fathomless  depth 
of  still  water.  I  had  not  the  courage  to  watch  her 
face,  seeing  them  vanish  out  of  sight  as  they  sunk 
one  by  one  into  her  heart.  I  guessed  what  misery 
she  felt,  what  utter  despair  had  come  to  her  as  she 
listened  to  the  bitter  end.  When  I  had  finished,  I 
turned  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  When  you  know  little  of  it,"  said  I,  "  the  world 
is  like  that.  Either  you  must  know  nothing,  or  you 
must  know  all." 

She  was  fumbling  with  the  veil  in  her  lap.  Her  lit- 
tle fingers  were  picking  at  the  threads  of  it  as  though 
there  were  the  tangle  of  her  life,  if  she  could  but  un- 
ravel it.  Presently  she  looked  up  and  met  my  eyes. 

"  Why  did  you  come  all  this  way  to  tell  me  that?  " 
she  whispered,  and  there  was  such  reproach  in  her 
voice  as  made  me  wish  to  God  I  had  never  spoken. 

"  Is  n't  it  better  that  you  should  know,"  said  I, 
"  better  than  staying  here  in  this  prison  with  those 
two  old  women  for  gaolers,  never  seeing  the  proper 
light  of  day  except  by  such  subterfuge  as  you  Ve 
had  to  make  use  of  this  morning?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  157 

For  another  moment  or  two  she  was  silent  again; 
then  suddenly  she  crushed  the  veil  passionately  in 
her  hands.  "  I  don't  believe  it 's  true  I  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  It  was  n't  him  you  saw.  It  was  some  one 
like  him,  but  it  was  n't  him.  He  's  always  promised 
he  'd  come  back  and  marry  me.  We  're  going  to 
live  in  London  and  he  's  going  to  take  me  to  theatres. 
Oh  —  there  are  a  thousand  things  we  're  going  to  do 
when  we  're  married.  I  'm  going  to  see  the  world. 
And  he  's  told  me  over  and  over  again  that  he  loves 
me.  It  was  n't  him  you  saw.  It  was  some  one  like 
him." 

She  could  have  persuaded  herself  to  that  belief 
had  I  allowed  her,  driving  it  again  and  again  into 
her  mind  until  the  facts  had  become  unrecogniz- 
able. But  I  had  fulfilled  my  duty  to  Destiny  so  far. 
There  could  be  no  meaning  in  it  if  I  turned  back 
now. 

'  You  forget  the  story,"  I  said,  "  the  story  of 
Clarissa  and  the  gown  of  canary-colored  satin.  Your 
sitting  here  now  with  me  is  a  proof  that  he  was  the 
man  I  saw.  Don't  deceive  yourself  into  any  belief 
to  make  yourself  happy  for  the  moment.  Give  him 
up  —  he'll  only  make  you  miserable;  he's  only 
thinking  of  marrying  you  because  of  what  he  will 
get  by  you.  Give  him  up,  go  back  to  Dominica, 
break  your  heart  for  a  month  or  two  if  you  must. 
It  '11  heal  again.  You  're  in  love  with  love,  far  more 
than  you  're  in  love  with  him.  You  don't  know  it 
perhaps.  How  should  you!  Are  you  twenty  yet? 


158  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Twenty  and  a  day  —  not  more.  How  should  you 
know  who  's  worth  loving  and  who  is  not?  Every 
girl  and  every  boy  falls  in  love  with  love,  and  many 
a  lover  must  come  and  go  before  a  girl  shall  learn 
which  one  is  worth  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Go 
back,  my  dear  child,  to  that  home  of  yours  in  the  sun, 
where  you  can  dress  yourself  in  all  those  colors  that 
make  you  happy;  go  back  and  love  your  love,  with 
an  aching  heart  if  you  like,  until  there  comes  along 
some  better  man  than  he  is.  You  don't  know  him  — 
you  don't  know  anything  about  him.  In  that  little 
island  of  yours,  I  Ve  no  doubt  he  seemed  a  hero 
for  Romance.  But  there  's  no  Romance  about  him 
here.  All  that  I  say  comes  coldly  from  my  head. 
You  are  only  thinking  with  your  heart  and,  of  course, 
you  don't  believe  a  word  I  Ve  told  you.  But  think 
again,  am  I  not  a  far  better  judge  than  you?  Think 
again  and  keep  on  thinking.  I  know,  but  you  only 
feel." 

What  I  had  feared  then,  came  suddenly.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her  shoulders 
shook  to  the  sobs  that  were  trembling  in  little  broken 
gasps  between  her  fingers. 

I  confess  it,  I  looked  helplessly  about  me.  The 
bright  light  of  the  sea  had  grown  suddenly  some- 
how grey.  Brilliance  had  gone  out  of  everything. 
I  wished  a  thousand  times  to  Heaven  I  had  never 
told  her,  yet  knowing,  every  time  I  wished  it,  that 
nothing,  not  even  the  certain  knowledge  of  her  tears, 
could  have  stopped  me. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  159 

At  the  sound  of  her  crying,  Dandy  had  looked 
up. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  me  with  his  ears. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  cry  like  that,"  said  I  and, 
scarce  thinking  what  I  did  or  said,  I  laid  my  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder  and  whispered  again,  "  Don't 
cry  like  that.  It  makes  me  feel  so  contemptible.  I 
know  I  have  no  right  to  come  over  all  this  way  just 
to  tell  you  things  that  will  make  you  miserable. 
But  I  could  n't  let  it  go.  Everything  seemed  driving 
me  to  do  it,  because  you  were  rushing  blindly  towards 
such  a  ghastly  reckoning.  You  don't  know  the  world 
that  he  is  offering  to  show  you.  You  think  it 's  all 
a  garden  where  things  grow  beautiful;  but  London, 
where  he  's  going  to  take  you,  is  not  like  that.  It 's 
very  difficult  to  find  the  things  that  grow  beautiful 
there.  Every  effort  they  make  in  London  is  not  to 
find  the  beautiful  things,  but  to  forget  the  ugly  ones. 
The  man  who  sees  beauty  in  a  great  city  like  that 
is  called  a  sentimentalist.  They  all  laugh  at  him. 
If  you  wore  your  canary-colored  satin  in  the  streets, 
you  'd  have  a  crowd  of  little  boys  jeering  after  you. 
Men  and  women  would  laugh  into  your  face.  Oh 
no;  do  go  back  to  your  island  of  sun  and  love  your 
love,  even  if  your  heart  should  break.  A  broken 
heart  need  never  be  a  broken  spirit.  A  broken  heart 
can  be  a  brave  and  a  noble  thing.  And  sometimes  — 
remember  —  it  mends.  But  in  London  they  'd  break 
the  spirit  in  you,  as  they  're  trying  to  break  it  here  — 
break  it  so  that  nothing  will  ever  mend  it  again.  And 


160  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

then  you  '11  begin  that  awful  struggle  towards  for- 
getfulness  —  a  struggle  to  forget  that  your  spirit 
is  gone,  that  the  world  is  ugly  with  sin  and  shame 
and  misery.  And  oh,  they  '11  make  it  so  difficult 
for  you  to  forget.  They  '11  wave  placards  in  front 
of  your  eyes  telling  you  that  there  have  been  mur- 
ders in  the  East  End,  that  women  have  died  of  star- 
vation, that  children  have  been  killed  at  their  birth. 
They  '11  scream  to  you  from  the  housetops  that  the 
world  is  an  ugly  place.  You  will  go  to  the  theatres 
you  speak  of  and  there  they  'II  tell  you  that  men  and 
women  are  unfaithful.  They  '11  keep  driving  into 
your  ears  that  truth  and  beauty  are  at  opposite  poles 
of  the  earth.  Never,  never  for  one  moment,  if  they 
can  help  it,  will  they  let  you  forget.  You  will  find 
those  who  have  even  passed  the  desire  of  forgetful- 
ness,  and  that  is  the  last  and  the  worst  stage  of  all. 
For  there  are  people  in  London  now  who  only  want 
to  remember  that  the  world  is  ugly.  They  go  to  the 
divorce  trials  and  the  murder  trials;  they  rush  in 
crowds  to  see  a  horror  in  the  streets.  Yet  once  upon 
a  time,  when  they  were  children,  they  remembered 
that  everything  was  beautiful.  Then  they  played 
in  their  garden  with  hoops  and  with  skipping  ropes 
—  you  '11  see  them  in  Kensington  Gardens  now  — 
and  every  day  they  woke  to  was  a  joy  to  live  in. 
After  a  time  came  the  phase  when  they  tried  not  to 
see  the  placards  of  the  newspapers  in  the  streets, 
when  they  began  to  hear  that  the  world  was  ugly, 
and  then,  they  tried  to  forget.  They  went  out  to 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  161 

the  theatres  and  to  music-halls,  to  dinners  and  to 
suppers,  working  like  slaves,  making  the  bricks  of 
forgetfulness  without  the  last  straws  of  hope.  Then, 
last  of  all,  with  spirit  utterly  broken,  they  accepted 
the  ugliness  of  the  world,  took  their  pleasure  in  re- 
membering it;  bought  their  newspapers  and  devoured 
them  with  their  breakfast,  mingling  horror  and  crime 
and  misery  with  the  very  food  they  put  into  their 
mouths.  Those  are  the  people  in  London  to-day 
who  will  point  out  to  you  the  ugliness  of  life  and  call 
it  beautiful  because  it  is  real.  Oh  —  my  dear  child 
—  go  back  —  go  back  to  your  little  island  and  don't 
look  for  the  ugliness  of  the  world  he  wants  to  show 
you.  Go  back,  and  one  day  you  '11  come  to  learn 
that  I  was  a  friend  —  the  best  friend  you  ever  had." 

How  it  was,  I  don't  know,  but  all  this  time  my 
hand  had  been  upon  her  shoulder.  Suddenly  then 
she  shook  it  off  and,  brushing  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 

"  I  don't  believe  you !  "  she  cried,  and  there  was 
that  note  in  her  voice  as  when  you  try  to  drown  the 
things  you  feel  with  the  things  you  say.  "  I  don't 
believe  you !  "  she  cried  again.  "  You  have  some 
reason  for  saying  all  this  —  some  reason  that  I  can't 
see.  You  want  to  do  him  harm  —  you  hate  him  — 
I  can  see  you  do." 

That  struck  strangely  on  my  ears,  for  it  was 
strangely  true.  She  was  quite  right.  I  did  hate 
him.  I  knew  then  that  I  did.  But  I  had  not  come  to 
Ireland  because  of  that.  When  first  I  had  heard  that 


1 62  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

story,  I  had  been  indifferent  to  him  —  wholly,  al- 
most elaborately,  indifferent.  It  was  the  injustice, 
the  impending  tragedy,  that  had  moved  me.  But 
now  —  I  hated  him.  And  how  had  she  found  that 
out?  Not  from  anything  I  had  said.  I  had  not 
shown  it  there.  Then  how  —  ? 

"  You  don't  say  no  to  that,"  she  went  on,  impetu- 
ously. "Why  do  you  hate  him?  Oh  —  I  suppose 
you  would  not  tell  me — ";  and  now  all  that  warm 
blood  of  hers  was  lighted  in  her  veins.  If,  like 
those  girls  along  the  coast  of  Lombardy,  she  had 
carried  a  dagger  in  her  garter,  I  should  have  found 
the  warm  steel  of  it  in  my  flesh  by  then.  As  it  was, 
only  her  eyes  stabbed  me,  one  blow  swift  after  an- 
other as  you  stab  the  thing  you  hate. 

"  So  do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  listen  to  a  single 
word  you  Ve  said?  I  can  hate,  and  hate  more  than 
you.  And  I  hate  you  for  coming  to  pour  those  lies 
into  my  ears.  If  I  had  seen  your  face  that  night  on 
the  cliffs  when  you  gave  me  your  letter,  I  should 
never  have  come.  I  hate  to  look  at  you.  You  're 
ugly  —  you  couldn't  tell  the  truth." 

Words  failed  her  then  —  they  choked  in  her 
throat.  She  tried  to  speak  but  could  not.  The  only 
words  were  in  her  eyes,  and  they  were  glittering 
like  the  sun  upon  a  dancing  blade  of  steel. 

"  Was  it  necessary  to  tell  me  that?  "  I  asked.  "  I 
know  it  so  well." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  quietness  of  my  voice  after 
the  storm  of  hers  —  whatever  it  may  have  been,  her 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  163 

eyes  were  suddenly  dimmed.  No  longer  rapier 
points  were  glittering  there.  In  place  of  them  came 
forth  a  flood  of  tears.  I  stepped  quickly  to  her  side, 
whereupon  she  looked  up  at  me  once  more. 

"Don't  touch  me  again!"  she  sobbed,  "don't 
touch  me  again !  And  never  say  another  word  to  me 
as  long  as  you  live.  Nothing  you  have  told  me 
makes  any  difference.  I  love  him  better  than  ever 
—  better  than  anything  in  the  world." 

And  as  she  said  this,  all  I  can  remember  think- 
ing was  to  bless  her  heart  and  wonder  from  what 
thrilling  book  in  yellow  covers  had  she  learnt  her 
words,  her  love  or  hatred. 

I  could  have  said  it  aloud,  but  that  moment  she 
had  gone.  For  an  instant,  too  amazed,  I  watched 
her  climbing  the  little  narrow  pathway  up  the  cliff 
side  and  then  I  hurried  after  her. 

"  Let  me  help  you  up,"  said  I,  imperatively. 
"  You  can't  get  up  here  alone." 

So  I  climbed  before  her  and  stretched  down  my 
hand  which,  without  question,  she  took  confidingly 
in  her  fingers.  And  I  clasped  them,  saying  nothing. 
I  had  touched  her  once  more.  It  is  never  wise  to 
let  a  woman  know  how  human  she  is. 

The  moment  she  reached  the  level  path  once  more, 
I  found  my  hand  empty.  With  a  sudden  move- 
ment she  had  drawn  her  fingers  away  and,  without 
a  word  of  good-bye,  had  turned  her  face  towards 
Ballysheen. 

"  Had  you  better  walk  back  alone?  "  I  asked. 


164  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  came  alone,"  said  she,  over  her  shoulder. 

"  You  would  rather  I  did  not  come  with  you  ?  " 

At  first  I  thought  she  would  not  answer  that,  but 
suddenly  she  whipped  round,  showing  me  the  anger 
in  her  eyes  once  more. 

"  I  shall  ask  God  to-night,"  she  said,  "  that  I  shall 
never  see  you  again." 

Against  my  will  that  made  me  smile.  She  would 
ask  God!  Indeed,  she  was  just  one  of  those  little 
creatures  who  in  their  loves  or  hatreds  would  ask 
a  Deity  to  help  them. 

I  sat  down  then  by  the  path's  edge.  At  my  side 
sat  Dandy,  and  together  —  just  as  once  we  had 
looked  after  the  little  nursery  maid  —  we  watched 
Clarissa  out  of  sight.  When  at  last  she  turned  the 
corner  and  disappeared,  I  leant  forward,  my  elbows 
on  my  knees,  staring  at  the  sea.  It  was  not  the  sea 
that  filled  my  eyes.  All  that  I  beheld  was  a  picture 
of  Clarissa  on  her  knees,  asking  God  that  she  should 
never  see  me  again. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  must  be  by  the  light  of  a  great  confidence  in 
himself  that  a  man  rejoices  in  fatalism.  As  I  walked 
along  the  cliffs  that  morning  to  meet  Clarissa,  the 
beating  of  my  heart  was  high.  For  that  one  hour 
I  had  believed  in  Fate,  in  the  imperishable  reason 
in  all  things.  But  as  I  saw  her  pass  round  the  dis- 
tant corner  and  vanish  out  of  sight,  the  whole  order 
of  the  world  was  plunged  in  chaos.  I  began  to  ask 
myself  what  freak  of  circumstance  had  sent  me  out 
upon  such  an  errand  of  folly. 

By  the  very  movement  of  her  body,  the  very  tem- 
per of  her  step,  as  I  watched  her  walking  back  to 
Ballysheen,  I  knew  that  I  had  awakened  in  her  a 
living  despot  of  determination. 

Women  are  like  that.  Nothing  will  alter  them. 
It  proves  to  me  conclusively  how  little  I  know  of 
their  nature  when  I  brought  reason  and  a  spirit  of 
logic  along  with  me  to  urge  Clarissa  to  the  sacrifice 
of  her  romance.  For  it  is  not  with  women  that  they 
are  unreasonable.  To  be  reasonable,  one  must  know 
what  reason  is.  Now  I  would  swear  that,  as  a  sex, 
they  do  not  know  the  first  meaning  of  the  word. 
Their  intelligence  is  of  another,  perhaps  a  higher, 
order  altogether.  Reason,  with  a  woman,  only 


1 66  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

aggravates  her  to  determination.  Intuition,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  a  man,  aggravates  him  to  obstinacy. 
That  is  why  I  think  —  and  maybe  I  am  wrong  — 
that  the  order  of  a  woman's  intelligence  is  higlier 
than  that  of  a  man's.  Determination  is  the  better 
part  of  obstinacy. 

Now  I  had  aggravated  Clarissa  to  determination. 
In  those  few  moments  of  her  anger  she  had  left  all 
her  timidity,  all  her  childlikeness,  behind  her.  So 
far  from  increasing  the  doubt  of  him,  which  I  know 
must  have  been  already  in  her  mind,  I  had  in  one 
simple  movement  —  the  relation  of  my  story  — swept 
it  utterly  away.  She  believed  in  and  loved  him  then 
more  wholly  and  completely  than  she  had  ever  done 
before,  and,  as  I  thought  it  all  out,  point  by  point, 
along  the  rigid  line  of  logic,  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  God  and  my  mother  had  not  qualified 
me  for  so  deft  and  delicate  a  business  as  the  meddling 
with  a  woman's  heart. 

"  Dandy,"  said  I,  presently,  "  we  'd  better  get 
back  to  lunch.  We  Ve  made  hopeless  fools  of  our- 
selves. Even  God,  who  made  woman,  knows  how 
to  treat  them  no  better  than  we.  Or  why  did  He 
send  that  man  into  her  life?  It 's  not  losing  a  woman 
to  see  no  more  of  her.  We  should  not  have  lost, 
we  should  have  won  her,  if  she  'd  gone  back  to 
Dominica.  But  we  Ve  lost  her  utterly  now.  Unless 
—  unless  — "  the  hope  of  it  leapt  suddenly  into  my 
mind  —  "unless  he  never  marries  her." 

It  was  one  of  those  things  too  great  and  generous 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  167 

in  circumstance  to  count  upon.  No  sooner  did  it 
enter  my  thoughts,  than  back  came  the  picture  of 
Clarissa  —  a  child  by  her  bedside  upon  her  knees  — 
praying  God  that  she  would  never  see  me  again;  at 
which,  when  I  had  contemplated  it  for  a  moment, 
I  rose  quickly  to  my  feet. 

"  Dandy,"  I  said  again,  "  we  'd  better  get  back  to 
London."  Therefore,  taking  the  tone  of  my  voice, 
he  fell  behind  disconsolately  to  my  heels  and,  in  si- 
lence, we  walked  back  to  Ballysheen.  Only  once  did 
I  look  round  at  him.  It  was  when  a  rabbit  scurried 
across  the  path  in  front  of  us.  Then  I  turned  my 
head. 

"  Did  you  see  him?  "  said  I. 

He  stood  still  and  stared  up  into  my  face. 

"  I  did,"  said  he,  "  but  I  did  n't  want  to." 

I  know  that  feeling  so  well.  I  was  quite  aware 
I  had  to  go  back  to  lunch.  God  knows  I  did  not 
want  to. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THERE  is  something  in  common  between  Bellwattle 
and  Dandy.  I  cannot  easily  describe  it,  but  I  find  a 
strange  resemblance.  It  lies,  I  think,  in  their  powers 
of  intuition,  for  whereas  Dandy  takes  the  color  of 
his  mood  from  the  subtlest  tone  of  my  voice,  it  is 
with  Bellwattle  that  she  knows  my  mood  before  I 
have  so  much  as  uttered  a  single  word. 

As  I  walked  up  the  drive  —  a  broad  shingle  walk, 
so  called  because  it  enables  Quin's  car  to  come  im- 
mediately to  the  front  door  —  I  was  thinking  of  all 
that  had  taken  place  that  morning;  trying  to  justify 
it  in  my  mind  with  any  reasonable  scheme  of  things 
however  remote.  To  what  purpose  had  I  heard  that 
story  in  the  restaurant?  With  what  object  had  that 
poor  child  of  ill-fortune  been  induced  to  shelter  in 
the  very  doorway  which  I  must  pass?  Or,  granting 
that  as  reasonable  enough,  why  had  she  spoken  to 
me  —  and,  speaking,  why  had  she  appealed  to  me 
for  charity?  There  were  many  things  she  might 
have  said,  less  calculated  to  catch  my  sympathy  than 
to  ask  me  for  her  cab  fare  home  —  things  at  which 
I  should  have  hurried  by  rather  than  hear.  But  no 
—  she  had  caught  the  moment's  speculation  of  my 
mind  and,  out  of  my  conversation  with  her,  had 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  169 

grown  the  belief  that  I  was  meant  to  save  Clarissa 
from  destruction. 

Lunch  was  not  ready  yet,  for  I  could  see  Cruik- 
shank  still  in  the  garden,  wherefore  I  stood  there  for 
some  minutes  in  the  drive,  trying  to  puzzle  it  out, 
to  fit  it  into  some  logical  order  of  events  upon  such 
lines  as  you  might  expect  so  complicated  a  matter  to 
be  planned.  But  it  would  not  go.  A  set  of  beads 
there  was,  a  thread  too  whereon  to  string  them. 
But  with  all  the  wishing  in  the  world,  I  could  not 
make  a  pattern  bringing  the  faintest  understanding 
to  my  mind. 

I  knew,  as  truly  as  the  Fate  which  had  brought 
them  together,  that  nothing  but  misery  and  disillu- 
sionment could  come  of  Clarissa's  union  with  that 
boy  in  London.  But  I  had  failed  to  persuade  her  to 
go  back  to  Dominica  without  him.  How  utterly  I 
had  failed,  no  one  but  I,  who  know  how  truly  I  had 
hoped  for  it,  can  ever  realize.  Then  why  had  the 
little  nursery  maid  ever  induced  in  me  a  mood?  Why 
had  my  mood  been  played  upon  by  that  story  in  the 
restaurant?  Why  had  the  story  been  visualized  to 
me  by  the  meeting  with  that  little  creature  in  the 
doorway?  In  a  word,  why,  in  the  name  of  God, 
had  I  come  to  Ireland  at  all? 

What  I  can  have  done  as  I  put  that  final  question 
to  myself,  I  do  not  know.  Some  gesticulation  I  must 
have  made ;  some  movement  which  had  betrayed  my 
thoughts  and  the  utter  despondency  of  my  mind. 
Whatever  it  could  have  been,  I  was  made  suddenly 


170  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

conscious  of  Bellwattle's  voice  calling  to  me  from  the 
window  of  her  bedroom. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  she  asked. 

I  looked  up,  and  found  her  standing  at  the  window 
drying  her  hands. 

"  What  should  be  the  matter?  "  said  I,  and  I  came 
to  take  my  stand  below  the  window,  looking  up. 

"Why  that  terrible  sigh?"  she  inquired,  "on  a 
day  like  this?  " 

"  I  was  n't  aware  of  it,"  I  replied. 

"  It 's  all  the  worse  for  that.  Is  something  the 
matter?" 

I  tried  to  read  her  face.  It  was  not  quite  inscru- 
table. I  had  that  irritating  sensation  of  believing  I 
was  very  near  to  the  knowledge  of  her  thoughts; 
near,  yet  far  enough  away  to  be  utterly  unable  to 
translate  them.  It  was  almost  safe  to  suppose  that 
she  knew  I  had  been  to  meet  Clarissa.  But  how 
could  she  possibly  realize  all  that  had  happened? 
So  I  stood  there  silent  for  a  moment,  waiting  while 
I  considered  how  far  I  could  decoy  her  from  the 
truth.  I  did  not  know  then,  so  well  as  I  know  now, 
that  the  truth  itself  is  the  only  thing  with  which  to 
mislead  a  woman's  intuition.  All  that  lies  behind 
deception  she  can  so  easily  detect.  It  is  the  truth 
behind  the  truth  which  confuses  her. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  she  repeated,  gently; 
and  then  I  was  forced  to  such  strategy  as  I  was 
capable  of.  How  could  I  tell  her  what  had  hap- 
pened? God  knows  I  had  been  fool  enough  to  try; 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  171 

but  my  folly,  now  that  I  had  failed,  was  not  the  sort 
to  be  softened  by  sympathy.  A  fool  and  his  money 
may  soon  be  parted.  It  is  his  folly  which  clings  to 
him,  and  not  the  gentlest  fingers  in  the  world  can 
ease  him  of  his  load. 

"  There  's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  I.  "  Perhaps 
I  'm  tired.  I  got  up  early  this  morning." 

She  looked  down  at  me  with  those  generous, 
straight  eyes  of  hers,  and  she  said:  "  Then  you  won't 
tell  me?" 

"  If  there  were  anything  the  matter,"  I  began, 
"  I  can  think  of  no  one  —  " 

I  looked  up  to  conclude  my  sentence,  but  she  had 
gone.  The  window  was  empty.  Over  a  matter  of 
this  sort  evidently  she  would  waste  no  time.  No 
doubt  she  was  quite  right.  My  saying  that  nothing 
was  the  matter  meant  that  I  had  no  intention  of  tell- 
ing her  and,  it  being  only  men  who  throw  time  away 
upon  curiosity  —  and  that  mainly  by  asking  questions 
—  she  had  let  me  talk  to  myself  rather  than  listen 
to  my  useless  evasions.  So,  at  least,  I  understood  her 
sudden  departure,  therefore  I,  too,  turned  away,  and 
Cruikshank  joined  me. 

"  After  lunch,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  begin  bedding 
out  my  stocks." 

"After  lunch?"  said  I.  "In  London  they  only 
think  up  to  a  meal.  I  don't  think  I  '11  have  any  lunch 
at  all." 

He  took  me  by  the  arm. 

"Appetite  going?"  he  inquired,  sympathetically. 


172  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  suddenly  remembered  his  surprise  at  my  empty 
porridge-dish,  realizing  that  here  he  imagined  he 
had  discovered  the  first  starvation  symptoms  of  an 
unrequited  passion.  That  was  more  than  I  could 
stand. 

"Oh  —  I'll  come  and  eat  with  you,"  said  I. 
"  There 's  nothing  the  matter  with  my  appetite. 
Getting  up  early  has  given  me  a  headache  —  that 's 
all." 

So  we  went  in  to  lunch  together,  when  Bellwattle 
was  quite  wonderful.  No  longer  did  she  treat  me  to 
her  sympathy.  Instead,  we  heard  from  her  some  of 
those  wild  schemes  and  fancies  which  take  possession 
of  her  mind,  I  suppose,  in  such  moments  as  when 
she  gazes  into  far  distances,  or  in  the  strange  hours 
of  her  day  when  she  is  alone  and  talks  in  animated 
conversation  with  herself. 

It  chanced  that  Cruikshank  spoke  of  the  number 
of  rats  in  the  farmyard  over  the  way. 

14  They  eat  everything,"  said  he. 

'  The  creatures !  "  she  exclaimed. 

'  That 's  all  very  well,"  said  Cruikshank,  "  but 
when  it  comes  to  a  whole  field  of  corn  being  ruined 
—  that 's  what  '11  happen  this  summer  if  they  're  not 
put  down." 

"  But  surely  you  can  stop  them?  " 

"How?  "said  I. 

"  Keep  the  things  covered  up." 

;<  What  do  you  suggest  should  be  put  over  a  field 
of  corn  ?  "  I  asked  —  "A  tarpaulin  ?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  173 

"  It  'ud  be  too  heavy,"  she  replied,  and  then  her 
quick  eye  caught  the  apoplectic  tint  in  Cruikshank's 
cheek,  and  her  face  became  full  of  questions. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  Couldn't  you  cover 
it  up?" 

"  You  could,"  said  I,  "  but  I  'd  sooner  leave  it  to 
the  rats.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  them?  " 
I  added,  to  Cruikshank.  "  You  '11  have  to  have  a 
wholesale  slaughter." 

His  frown  to  me  came  too  late.  I  had  said  it, 
and  Bellwattle  was  up  in  arms  at  once. 

"  Why  should  you  kill  them?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh, 
I  think  it 's  a  shame !  They  have  as  much 
right  to  live  as  we  have.  They  must  eat! 
If  you  don't  want  them  to  eat  corn  they  ought 
to  be  fed." 

"Who's  going  to  stand  the  expense  of  that?" 
we  asked. 

"  The  Government,"  she  declared,  "  the  State." 

"  You  'd  have  to  give  them  old-age  pensions  too," 
said  I.  "  When  you  make  human  paupers  they  're 
not  content  with  being  fed.  They  want  provision  in 
their  old  age  as  well.  It  'ud  be  just  the  same  if  you 
made  rodentian  paupers." 

"  What 's  that?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Paupers,"  explained  Cruikshank,  "  of  that  order 
of  creatures  to  which  the  rat  belongs." 

"  Well,  why  does  n't  he  say  so?  "  she  replied. 

The  fact  that  I  had  said  so  seemed  to  make  no 
difference.  I  felt  that  I  had  been  put  in  my  place; 


174  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

especially  when  it  was  Bellwattle  herself  who  changed 
the  subject.  She  wanted  to  keep  a  cow,  she  said,  de- 
claring as  the  basis  of  her  suggestion  that  it  was  so 
much  nicer  having  one's  own  milk. 

"  But  we  only  have  to  go  fifty  yards  across  to  the 
farm  to  get  it,"  said  Cruikshank. 

But  that  was  not  her  point.  I  was  conceited 
enough  to  imagine  I  knew  all  that  lay  in  the  back  of 
her  mind. 

"  Fifty  yards  is  a  long  way,"  said  I,  "  when  you 
like  cows  for  themselves." 

She  gave  me  a  genuine  glance  of  gratitude. 

"  And  I  love  cows,"  said  she.  "  I  'd  look  after  it. 
I  M  feed  it  too.  Do  let  me  have  one.  I  'd  love  to 
keep  a  diary." 

"  Just  to  record,"  said  I,  "  what  the  cow  does  and 
thinks.  It 's  quite  natural." 

"  Don't  be  silly  I  "  said  she.  "  You  know  I  mean 
a  dairy.  Cows  don't  think  —  do  they?  " 

"  Depends  on  who  milks  them,"  said  Cruikshank. 
"  The  cow  that  you  tampered  with  might  have  ideas. 
And  what  are  we  going  to  do  when  the  milking  sea- 
son 's  over?  Just  keep  it  in  the  paddock  and  feed 
it?" 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement. 

"  Don't  they  give  milk  all  the  year  round?  "  she 
inquired. 

Cruikshank's  awkward  endeavor  to  dispel  that 
idea  from  her  mind,  and  at  the  same  time  give  no 
offence,  was  nearly  the  nicest  thing  said  during  lunch. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  175 

"  It  was,"  he  explained,  "  only  when  their  condition 
was  interesting  that  they  obliged." 

"  Surely  you  didn't  imagine,"  he  continued,  "  that 
cows  were  made  to  give  milk  to  human  beings,  irre- 
spective of  their  calves?  " 

"  Well  —  eggs  are  eggs,"  said  Bellwattle,  conclu- 
sively. And  as  we  could  not  deny  it  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  her  supposition  about  the  cows  was  cor- 
rect. Logically,  no  doubt,  she  is  quite  right.  If  eggs 
will  be  eggs,  it  seems  on  the  face  of  it  an  error  of 
Nature  that  cows  should  not  always  be  cows.  The 
fact  that  they  are  not  had  no  power  to  destroy  the 
line  of  argument  in  her  mind.  She  still  thought  that 
Cruikshank  ought  to  keep  one  of  those  amiable  beasts 
and  that  she  ought  to  be  able  to  milk  it  the  whole 
year  round. 

And  so  she  talked  on  all  through  that  lunch-time. 
I  could  never  have  dreamed,  from  the  rippling  stream 
of  her  conversation,  that  she  had  ever  been  curious  to 
know  what  was  the  matter  with  me.  But  then,  when 
in  a  sudden  silence  I  announced  that  I  must  be  draw- 
ing my  visit  to  a  close  her  eyes  lit  up  with  a  burning 
fire  of  questions,  not  one  of  which  she  asked.  For 
the  moment  she  was  content  and  clever  enough  to  let 
Cruikshank  interrogate  me.  At  first  he  refused  all 
hearing  of  it. 

"  But  you  forget,"  said  I,  "  I  can't  live  on  here  for 
ever.  Next  Friday  makes  my  fifth  week." 

"  It  might  make  your  fiftieth,"  said  he.  "  We 
don't  care." 


176  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  laughed.  These  dear  people  are  too  hospitable 
to  know  what  hospitality  means.  There  is  no  such 
thing  —  or,  indeed,  should  be  no  such  thing  —  as 
hospitality.  Hospitality  is  giving  within  reason.  But 
if  there  be  reason  in  it,  why  call  it  giving?  What  is 
mine  cannot  be  yours  within  reason,  for  if  there  were 
reason  in  it,  then  everything  I  possess  would  be  my 
own. 

"  I  '11  wait  till  the  end  of  the  week,"  said  I,  "  then 
I  must  get  back." 

"  That 's  only  three  days !  "  they  exclaimed  in  a 
chorus  of  disgust. 

"  It  '11  be  more  than  five  weeks  since  I  came,"  said 
I.  "  No  —  I  must  be  off  by  then." 

"Is  there  anything — ?"  began  Cruikshank,  and 
then  Bellwattle  interrupted.  I  could  see  she  did  not 
think  it  safe  to  let  him  continue  any  longer.  In  mat- 
ters of  judgment  where  the  heart  is  concerned,  men 
are  not  to  be  relied  upon.  They  thought,  no  doubt, 
that  I  had  been  disappointed  in  my  little  love  affair, 
wherefore,  Bellwattle  demanded  that  I  should  be  left 
to  her,  and  under  the  table  she  kicked  Cruikshank 
meaningly  upon  the  ankle.  I  happen  to  know  that, 
because  it  was  my  ankle  which  received  the  blow. 
When,  then,  he  took  no  notice  of  her  signal,  she 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  as  a  race  men  were  the 
most  obtuse  animals  God  ever  thought  of,  and  rising 
from  the  table  she  asked  me  to  smoke  a  cigarette 
with  her  in  the  garden. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?  "  said  I. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  177 

She  made  no  answer  till  we  came  to  the  little  nut 
walk  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Then  she  turned 
and  looked  me  in  the  face. 

"  Is  this  decision  unalterable?  "  she  asked. 

I  nodded  my  head. 

'  When  you  're  miserable  do  you  always  want  to 
go  and  be  alone?  " 

In  the  tone  of  her  voice  I  felt  the  shadow  of  what 
was  coming.  She  was  going  to  make  this  the  last  and 
most  determined  bid  for  my  confidence.  I  was  no  less 
determined  to  tell  her  nothing.  What  good  could 
it  do?  There  may  be  a  certain  beauty  in  sympathy 
which  makes  any  abasement  worth  while,  but  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned  it  is  a  quality  in  human  beings  I 
have  done  without  for  so  long,  that  a  childish  sense  of 
dignity  has  double  its  value  to  me. 

Now  it  would  have  been  most  undignified  to  tell 
any  one  of  the  folly  of  my  adventure,  or  to  seek  to 
gain  their  sympathy  because  it  had  failed.  The  real 
tragedy  of  failure  is  not  its  want  of  success;  it  is 
the  knowledge  that  you  may  not  tell  it  to  a  soul. 
Therefore,  I  said  boldly  that  I  was  quite  happy,  and 
not  so  far  below  my  breath  as  that  she  might  not  hear, 
I  hummed  the  catchy  fragment  of  a  tune. 
'  Then,  why  are  you  suddenly  going?  " 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  difference  between 
a  visit  and  an  infliction.  I  want  to  be  asked  again. 
I  don't  want  to  stay  on  until  you  really  will  be  glad 
to  see  the  last  of  me." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  nonsense  to  me?  "  she  inquired. 


178  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Do  you  think  I  forget  things?  Do  you  think  I  Ve 
forgotten  what  you  said  to  me  on  the  cliffs  that  day 
we  went  to  see  the  cottage  ?  " 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"  '  It 's  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone.'  I  don't 
know  whether  you  invented  it  yourself,  but  you  said 
it." 

"  No  —  that 's  not  mine." 

"  But  you  said  it?" 

"Oh  — yes." 

"  Then,  why  are  you  going  back  to  London  and 
leaving  us?  " 

I  looked  all  round  the  garden  and,  upon  my  soul, 
for  the  moment  I  wondered  why  the  deuce  I  was 
doing  it  myself.  There  was  the  arabis  in  blossom, 
the  deep  purple  tulips,  with  strong,  straight  shafts 
of  green,  were  standing  in  their  rows  in  orderly 
array,  as  though  a  Roman  emperor  were  passing 
down  their  lines.  The  faint  breath  of  a  wandering 
breeze  just  caught  them  and,  as  they  bowed,  I  heard 
the  sound  of  distant  music  in  the  emperor's  train. 
But  that  was  only  fancy,  and  it  was  not  for  a  fancy 
alone  that  I  marvelled  at  myself  or  wondered  how 
I  could  bring  myself  to  leave  it.  These  was  the 
whole  breadth  and  length  of  the  sea,  the  whole  vast 
arena  of  the  sky,  the  great  sweep  of  the  cliffs,  which 
no  line  of  purple  tulips  could  compass,  with  which  no 
snow  of  arabis  could  compare.  And  for  the  cramped 
spaces  in  a  city,  no  matter  how  immense,  I  was  going 
to  leave  it  all  —  all  consciousness  of  freedom,  all 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  179 

remembrance  of  my  heritage  of  life  —  just  that  I 
might  pursue  that  bitter  pleasure  of  forgetfulness. 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  said  I.  "  I  suppose  when  they 
say  that  you  hear  London  calling  to  you  there  's 
something  in  it.  It  has  a  voice  —  you  can't  deny  it." 

"  Yes  —  and  who  was  it  who  did  n't  put  wax  in 
his  ears,  but  got  his  men  to  tie  him  up  so  he  could 
hear  the  women  singing?" 

"  It  was  Ulysses,"  said  I ;  "  but  it  does  n't  apply 
in  my  case.  The  song  of  London  after  this  is  a 
raucous  melody  to  me.  It 's  here  the  voices  sing." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tenderness  as  she  looked  at 
me.  I  was  getting  my  sympathy  after  all,  and  that 
without  any  expenditure  of  my  childish  dignity.  Oh 
—  women  are  generous  creatures!  If  they  cannot 
make  a  bargain  with  their  hearts,  then  they  offer 
them  in  both  hands  —  and  for  nothing. 

When  I  saw  that  look,  I  had  the  audacity  to  take 
her  hand. 

"  Don't  ask  me  anything  more,"  said  I,  "  let  me 
put  the  wax  in  my  ears  and  get  back  to  my  little 
theatres.  I  shall  be  happy  enough  when  I  take  my 
seat  once  more  in  the  Park  and  see  the  play  begin. 
Next  year  perhaps  I  '11  come  back  for  a  week  or  two, 
when  there  are  not  so  many  fish  as  we  Ve  caught  in 
the  last  few  weeks." 

I  said  that  for  her  to  laugh  at,  but  she  did  not  even 
smile.  Instead,  she  took  her  hand  away  from  mine 
and  her  lips  set  firmly  in  determination. 

"  Very  well,"  said  she,  "  tell  me  nothing.     It 's 


180  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

not  the  way  to  treat  a  woman  when  she  really  wants 
to  know.  But  you  '11  learn  that  as  you  get  older." 

"  I  shall  never  learn  anything  about  women," 
said  I. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  began  to  walk 
back  to  the  house. 

"  Was  that  a  threat?  "  I  called  after  her. 

"  It  was  whatever  you  '11  find  it,"  said  she. 

I  ran  down  the  path  and  caught  her  up. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  " 

"  You  don't  understand  my  tone  of  voice,  I  sup- 
pose? "  she  replied. 

I  admitted  I  did  not,  whereupon  she  made  a  state- 
ment that  I  shall  carry  back  with  me  to  London  and 
remember  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 

"  Every  woman,"  said  she,  "  has  her  little  idios- 
an-crazes  ":  and  she  walked  on  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   XX 

FOR  a  little  while  that  afternoon  I  watched  Cruik- 
shank  bedding  out  his  stocks.  He  has  evidently  been 
warned  to  be  very  careful  what  he  says  about  my 
going.  I  gather  that  from  the  fact  that  he  leaves 
the  subject  severely  alone.  It  shows  a  discretion  on 
his  part  which,  while  it  may  be  the  better  part  of 
valor,  has  an  irritating  way  of  defeating  its  own 
ends.  I  can  imagine  all  they  have  been  saying  about 
Clarissa  and  myself,  while  Cruikshank,  hiding  his 
head  under  the  sand  of  silence,  is  patting  himself  on 
the  back  in  the  belief  that  I  cannot  see  all  he  knows. 

It  was  thinking  of  this  hidden  head  of  his  that 
made  me  ask  him  did  his  back  not  ache  over  the 
labors  of  a  garden. 

;<  When  I  began,"  said  he,  "  I  used  to  think  I  was 
an  old  man.  I  don't  notice  it  now." 

After  a  pause,  during  which  he  never  stopped 
working,  I  inquired  when  the  stocks  would  blossom. 

"Late  June  —  July  —  August  —  part  of  Septem- 
ber." 

It  was  saying  just  as  little  as  he  could,  and  I  am 
not  surprised,  for  all  true  gardeners  hate  interrup- 
tion. It  was  saying  so  little,  but,  my  heavens !  it  was 
saying  so  much.  Late  June  —  July  —  August  — 


1 82  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

part  of  September.  What  abundant,  what  extrava- 
gant generosity!  The  only  other  living  things  in  the 
world  as  generous  as  that  are  women. 

"  Do  you  remember  walking  round  the  Quad," 
said  I,  "  and  talking  about  women?  " 

He  looked  up  quickly  over  his  shoulder.  Of 
course,  the  question  was  a  startling  one  to  him.  He 
had  not  followed  my  train  of  thought. 

"Why?    Why?  "he  repeated. 

I  turned  away  on  my  heel. 

"Why?  Oh  —  I  don't  know.  We  thought  we 
knew  so  much  about  them,  didn't  we?  All  of  us 
begin  as  teachers  in  the  temple,  and  the  best  of  us 
end  by  being  clowns  in  a  booth." 

I  looked  back  at  him  once  as  I  passed  out  of  the 
garden.  He  was  standing  up,  with  the  tiny  root  of 
a  stock  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  was  a  picture  of 
bewilderment. 

Before  I  had  decided  upon  any  direction  to  follow, 
I  found  myself  down  by  the  long,  low  curve  of  strand 
marking  the  bend  of  the  bay  of  Ballysheen.  From 
the  first  moment  that  I  saw  it,  it  reminded  me  of 
Browning's  "  Night  and  Morning  " : 

A  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach, 
Two  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears. 

For  there  is  the  mile  of  sand  as  though  it  had  been 
measured  to  his  pen.  There,  too,  are  the  low-lying 
fields  and  the  long  white  farmhouse  with  its  roof  of 
thatch.  Whenever  they  put  their  lamp  in  those 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  183 

farmhouse  windows  as  the  evening  light  draws  in, 
I  think  as  well  of  "  the  quick  blue  spurt  of  a  match," 
of  the  "  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each." 

The  farm  belongs  to  one  named  Power,  whose 
land,  some  fifty  acres  of  pasture  fields  and  corn, 
stretches  inland  behind  and  around  the  house.  It 
was  there,  through  all  his  fields,  I  wandered,  letting 
my  feet  take  me  as  they  wished.  It  seemed  I  had  no 
intention  left  in  all  the  world,  except  that  I  was  de- 
termined upon  one  thing.  I  would  not  return  to  the 
house  to  tea.  They  might  suppose  what  they  liked 
about  my  appetite,  but  I  could  bear  no  longer  the 
thought  of  keeping  silent  to  the  generous  inquisition 
of  Bellwattle's  desire  for  my  confidence.  There  were 
all  the  reasons  in  the  world,  I  know,  why  I  should 
tell  her  everything;  but  that  fear  in  me  of  being 
thought  a  fool,  added  to  the  knowledge  of  that 
which  she  had  already  told  Cruikshank,  would  be 
more  than  I  could  stand.  Of  course,  she  would  think 
me  a  fool.  Any  woman  would  think  so  of  a  man 
who  undertakes  knight-errantry  with  such  equipment 
as  is  mine. 

When,  therefore,  it  came  to  tea-time,  I  sat  down 
behind  a  tree  of  hawthorn,  white  with  blossom,  just 
looking  into  the  heart  of  the  country  which  I  knew 
I  should  not  see  again  for  many  a  month  to  come. 

It  was  then  as  I  sat  there,  that  I  saw  the  figure  of 
General  Ffrench  approaching.  Another  instant  and 
Dandy  would  have  been  alongside  of  him,  master  at 
once  of  those  ceremonies  of  friendly  overture  which 


184  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

he  knows  so  well  how  to  conduct.  My  hand  upon  his 
collar  came  not  a  moment  too  soon. 

"  Lie  down,  you  young  devil !  "  said  I,  below  my 
breath,  for  the  old  gentleman  was  following  a  beaten 
track  through  the  field  from  which,  if  he  did  but  con- 
tinue it,  I  should  escape  his  notice.  For  four  weeks 
I  had  avoided  hearing  of  the  old  queen's  reception  in 
Dublin,  and  it  was  not  in  my  mind  to  listen  to  it  then. 
So  I  held  Dandy  severely  by  the  collar  and  he  passed 
us  by.  It  was  not  the  sort  of  treatment  Dandy  ap- 
preciated. He  has  a  passionate  curiosity  about 
human  beings.  Never  a  man  can  pass  along  a  lonely 
road  but  what  he  must  go  and  speak  to  him.  He 
sniffs  in  a  tentative  way  at  his  legs  and  then,  if  satis- 
fied, drops  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper,  where- 
upon the  man  always  turns  and  looks  at  me  with  a 
kindly  smile  in  his  eyes,  which  vanishes  no  sooner 
than  he  properly  has  sight  of  me.  I  suspect  it  is  that 
Dandy  is  endeavoring  to  persuade  him  what  a  splen- 
did fellow  I  am,  which,  apparently,  he  has  every  good 
intention  to  believe,  until  he  turns  to  find  rne  as  I  am. 

When,  then,  Dandy  found  himself  a  prisoner, 
compelled  to  watch  this  strange  two-legged  creature 
go  by  without  any  of  his  customary  amenities,  he 
twisted  his  head  first  this  way  and  then  that,  till  I 
thought  he  would  wring  his  own  neck  in  his  collar. 

"  Keep  still,  you  little  fool !  "  I  whispered. 

He  looked  back  piteously  over  his  shoulder  into 
my  face. 

"  It 's  a  man,"  he  whined. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  185 

"  I  know  that,"  said  I. 

"  But  he  's  got  a  gun." 

"  He  's  only  got  one  cartridge,"  I  replied  with  tri- 
umph. "  You  watch  him." 

And  we  watched  —  Dandy  breathlessly,  I,  with 
that  calm  confidence  born  of  a  superior  knowledge. 
It  was  Dandy  who  expected  him  to  raise  his  gun  at 
the  slightest  provocation  and  blow  the  very  heavens 
to  pieces,  when,  collar  or  no  collar,  he  would  have 
been  off  into  the  fields,  dancing  here,  there  and 
everywhere  without  the  faintest  conception  of  what 
he  was  doing.  But  I  knew  better  than  that.  The 
old  gentleman  moved  slowly  and  stealthily,  as  one 
who  is  following  the  subtle  and  intricate  workings 
of  a  trail.  Just  to  see  him  made  me  think  of  the  days 
at  school  with  a  Latin  grammar  outside  the  desk  and 
the  story  of  Sioux  Indians  within.  To  manipulate 
the  reading  of  the  one  with  an  apparently  engross- 
ing study  of  the  other,  is  no  mean  feat.  First,  your 
face  assumes  that  consternation  which  comes  with 
the  sudden  remembrance  that  you  have  forgotten 
something  —  up  goes  the  flap  of  the  desk  —  but 
what  does  it  matter?  It  was  all  so  very  long  ago. 
I  don't  suppose  I  could  do  it  now  for  five  minutes 
without  immediate  discovery.  It  was  of  a  Sioux  In- 
dian, anyhow,  that  the  old  general  reminded  me. 
He  had  that  way  of  walking.  There  was  just  that 
watchful  poise  of  the  head.  You  might  have 
thought,  to  see  him,  that  he  was  close  upon  the  tracks 
of  a  giant  grizzly  instead  of  some  poor  little  rabbit, 


1 86  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

which  must  sit  up  motionless  for  at  least  a  minute 
before  he  would  consent  to  shoot. 

It  was  the  sight  of  this  old  man,  sparing  and  ever 
sparing  his  last  cartridge,  that  made  me  feel  the 
poverty  of  Ireland  more  than  any  roofless  cottage  or 
empty  mill.  I  compared  it  for  the  instant  with  the 
men  at  Monte  Carlo,  blazing  away  their  cartridges 
at  the  frightened  pigeons,  jerking  the  empty  cases 
with  easy  callousness  on  to  the  ground.  I  had  no 
doubt  this  old  fellow  would  take  home  his  empty  case 
and  keep  it  on  a  shelf  in  some  lumber  cupboard, 
looking  at  it  reminiscently  from  time  to  time,  re- 
joicing in  the  remembrance  of  the  many  days  of  sport 
it  had  brought  him.  You  may  be  sure  this  was  not 
the  first  time  he  had  come  out  with  that  cartridge 
which  the  money  for  those  tomatoes  had  acquired  for 
him.  I  can  imagine  there  is  plenty  of  sport  in  such 
a  case  without  firing  a  single  shot. 

He  certainly  found  enough  to  keep  him  alert  that 
afternoon.  Times  out  of  number  he  raised  the  gun 
swiftly  to  his  shoulder.  There  were  three  breathless 
moments  when  he  steadied  himself  as  he  took  aim; 
but  either  it  was  that  the  rabbit  did  not  sit  still  long 
enough,  or  he  knew  that  he  had  lost  that  cunning  of 
his  younger  days;  whatever  it  was,  the  world  was 
quite  still;  the  heavens  were  not  blown  to  pieces. 
He  never  fired  once. 

For  an  hour  I  think  I  must  have  sat  under  that 
hawthorn  bush  with  the  everlasting  expectation  of 
a  sudden  thunder  of  sound.  It  never  came.  And 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  187 

then,  as  I  rose  to  my  feet  to  return  home,  he  ap- 
peared once  more  in  sight.  This  time  he  saw  me. 
There  was  no  escaping  him  then.  Dandy  rushed 
back  to  meet  him;  sniffed  suspiciously  at  the  barrel 
of  his  gun;  asked  him  in  as  many  words  all  about 
it.  On  this  occasion,  I  imagine  he  said  not  a  single 
word  about  me. 

"  Any  sport?  "  I  asked,  as  he  came  up  with  me. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  a  single  rabbit  anywhere,"  said  he. 

You  see,  everybody  has  his  little  sense  of  dignity. 
I  am  not  alone  in  the  possession  of  it  when  I  will 
not  tell  Bellwattle  what  a  fool  I  have  been.  Four 
times  at  least  before  he  had  passed  out  of  sight  I 
had  seen  him  raise  his  gun  to  his  shoulder,  ready  to 
fire  at  a  rabbit  sitting  peacefully  within  twenty  yards 
of  him.  Then,  without  a  blush  to  his  face,  he  as- 
sures me  he  has  not  seen  one.  But  this  is  the  common 
instinct  of  a  man.  He  will  not  be  thought  a  fool. 
God  alone  knows  how  completely  he  may  be  one. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  find,"  said  I,  "  that  you  're  not  one 
of  those  men  who  blaze  away  for  the  mere  sake  of 
sJiooting." 

He  took  my  arm  at  that. 
'  You  noticed  I  did  n't  fire  a  shot?  "  said  he. 

"  I  should  have  heard  it,"  said  I,  "  if  you  had." 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  without  flattering  myself, 
that  I  'm  one  of  those  men  who  has  an  unusual 
amount  of  self-control." 

But  the  moment  he  had  said  it,  Fate  played  her 


1 88  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

pranks  with  him.  There  came  a  rabbit  out  from  the 
undergrowth  to  sit  blandly  on  the  beaten  track  in 
front  of  us.  Up  went  his  gun. 

"  Keep  still !  "  he  muttered,  in  a  horrible  whisper. 

And  then,  whether  it  were  by  mistake  that  his 
finger  pulled  the  trigger  or,  happening  on  some  odd 
chance,  he  thought  he  had  found  the  sight  at  once, 
however  it  was,  he  fired.  Immediately  the  rabbit 
darted  back  into  the  undergrowth,  and  Dandy  leapt 
forward,  barking  and  jumping  wildly  as  though  he 
were  responsible  for  the  whole  affair.  The  poor  old 
gentleman  blew  the  smoke  disconsolately  down  the 
barrel  of  his  gun. 

"Must  have  hit  him,"  said  he,  "  but  I  can't  under- 
stand how  the  deuce  he  got  away." 

So  firmly,  moreover,  did  he  believe  it  that  he  tried 
to  set  Dandy  searching  for  the  poor  little  beast. 

"Fetch  him  I  Fetch  him!"  said  he,  and  Dandy 
jumped  around  from  one  rabbit-hole  to  another  till 
he  almost  made  me  giddy. 

"  It  was  not  an  easy  shot,"  said  I,  for  I  must  con- 
fess I  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  knew  he  would  never 
have  fired  that  last  cartridge  had  it  not  been  for  me. 

"  No,  it  was  not  easy,"  he  agreed.  "  I  had  to  be 
very  quick,"  and  then,  sorrowfully,  he  took  out  the 
empty  cartridge-case.  I  watched  him  secretly  as  he 
slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

We  walked  on  together  up  to  the  village,  and  all 
the  time,  as  I  knew  to  be  inevitable,  he  entertained 
me  with  his  story  of  the  old  queen's  reception  in 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  189 

Dublin.  At  his  own  gate  we  parted,  though  to  this 
day  I  scarcely  know  how  I  escaped.  His  desire  that 
I  should  meet  his  sister,  Mrs.  Quigley,  was  ex- 
pressed in  such  inordinate  terms  of  flattery  as  to 
make  my  refusal  tantamount  to  an  insult.  It  was 
only  the  fixed  determination  in  my  mind  to  see  Cla- 
rissa's prison  once  more  before  I  left  Ballysheen  that 
made  me  adamant. 

Why  this  determination  had  come  to  me  is  more 
than  I  can  explain.  I  wanted  to  catch  a  last  glimpse 
of  her  between  those  white  muslin  curtains  to  assure 
myself  perhaps  that,  complete  as  my  failure  may 
have  been,  I  had  not  shirked  the  duty  which  an  un- 
reasonable Destiny  had  so  plainly  pointed  out  to  me. 
I  had  done  my  best;  moreover,  there  was  yet  the 
slender  hope  that  the  wisdom  of  my  words  might 
plant  a  seed  of  doubt  within  her.  She  might  yet 
refuse  to  marry  him. 

But  there  was  a  bitterness  in  that  hope  for  me. 
If  such  an  event  did  happen,  she  would  never  come 
to  me  in  gratitude.  And  it  is  gratitude  from  a 
woman,  I  think,  which  makes  a  deal  of  difference  in 
the  color  of  the  world.  For  that  I  had  envied  my 
electrician,  because,  when  he  gave  the  little  nursery 
maid  his  narcissus,  she  must  have  said  "  Thank  you." 
In  the  same  way  it  is  not  because  I  have  the  faintest 
shadow  of  an  idea  as  to  how  a  woman  should  be 
dressed,  that  I  would  like  to  clothe  her  from  head 
to  foot.  It  is  to  see  her  strutting  before  a  glass  like 
some  peacock  on  a  garden  wall,  to  catch  the  gleam 


190  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

of  perky  pleasure  in  her  eye;  it  is  to  see  her  sud- 
denly turn  the  last  of  all  her  peacock  little  thoughts 
to  you,  to  hear  the  sudden  rustle  of  the  skirt  you 
have  bought,  to  feel  her  hand  in  the  glove  that  you 
have  paid  for  laid  swiftly  on  your  arm  and  then  to 
hear  the  voice  which  only  God  and  a  great  heart  can 
give  her,  saying,  "  You  dear  old  thing,  and  I  'd 
nearly  forgotten  to  thank  you." 

I  believe  she  always  does  forget,  just  at  first.  And 
judging  by  the  men  whose  faces  at  such  moments  I 
have  watched,  it  must  be  so  much  nicer  that  way. 
She  would  not  be  human  if  she  remembered  straight 
away. 

All  such  gratitude  as  this  then  from  Clarissa  I  had 
lost.  Through  the  dim  light  behind  those  white 
muslin  curtains,  the  utmost  I  could  imagine  of  her 
was  that  she  was  down  upon  her  knees,  praying  God 
that  she  might  never  see  me  again.  And  when  I  did 
reach  the  house,  it  was  just  this  picture  and  no  other 
that  my  mind  painted  for  me. 

Why  had  I  come  into  her  life?  But  I  did  not  put 
it  that  way.  I  asked  myself  why  she  had  come  into 
mine.  And  what  is  more,  I  knew  that  I  could  answer 
it.  It  was  because  of  the  terrible  loneliness  which 
hemmed  her  in  on  every  side.  That  it  was  which 
had  made  its  appeal  to  me.  She  was  more  beset 
with  the  utter  solitude  of  life  even  than  I.  I  at  least 
had  Dandy.  There  was  Moxon,  too,  who,  if  it 
came  to  such  a  pass,  would  willingly  serve  me  for 
nothing  rather  than  leave  me  to  myself.  But  this 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  191 

poor  child  had  no  one,  and  as  I  gazed  up  at  the 
cheerless  window  staring  out  across  the  sea  I  felt 
that,  were  it  given  to  me  —  disfigured  as  I  am  —  I 
could  bring  her  nearer  to  that  mysterious  secret  of 
content  which  needs  no  qualities  of  possession  to 
make  it  clear. 

"  But  that,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  is  the  talk  of  a 
child." 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  —  "  began  an  ur- 
gent voice  within  me. 

*  That,"  said  I,  emphatically  and  aloud,  "  is  the 
talk  of  a  child."  To  which  the  voice  within  me  had 
no  more  to  say. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  I  turned  away  and 
simultaneously  saw  the  figure  of  Bellwattle  emerge 
from  the  front  door,  hurrying  away  towards  home. 

In  a  dozen  steps  I  had  come  up  with  her.  Sus- 
picion was  working  quickly  in  my  mind. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  there  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Seeing  the  Miss  Fennells,"  she  replied, 
promptly. 

'  The  Miss  Fennells,"  said  I,  "  are  in  Youghal, 
and  will  not  return  till  late  this  evening." 

;<  Why  did  you  ask,  then?  "  she  replied,  and  there 
was  the  suggestion  in  her  voice  that  it  was  I  who 
should  be  blamed  for  leading  her  to  tell  the  lie. 

"  I  asked,"  said  I,  "  because  I  wanted  to  know." 

;t  When  you  tell  a  person  nothing  yourself,"  she 
answered,  "  that 's  the  very  worst  reason  you  could 
have,"  and  after  that  I  could  get  her  to  say  no  more. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

I  AM  consumed  with  the  belief  that  something  has 
happened.  On  the  assumption  of  her  instinct  alone 
Bellwattle  has  taken  matters  into  her  own  hands. 
Her  visit  of  the  evening  before  last  to  the  Miss  Fen- 
nells'  house  had  for  its  intention  a  talk  with  Clarissa. 
Whether  she  saw  her  or  not  I  cannot  rightly  guess. 
Somehow  it  would  seem  that  she  did. 

After  breakfast  yesterday  morning  she  called  me 
out  into  the  garden  and  begged  me  to  stay  over  the 
week-end  till  Tuesday  or  Wednesday  at  least.  No 
sooner  had  she  made  this  request  than  I  turned  and 
faced  her. 

"Why?  "I  asked. 

"  Because  we  want  you  to." 

4  You  Ve  said  you  wanted  me  to  stay  an  indefi- 
nite length  of  time.  But  why  Tuesday  or  Wednes- 
day?" 

A  distressful  look  came  into  her  eyes  as  she  sought 
for  inspiration  to  give  me  answer. 

"  Must  you  always  have  a  woman's  reason  before 
you  grant  the  favor  she  is  asking?  " 

"  It 's  a  good  policy,"  said  I. 
*  Yes  —  but  what 's  the  good  of  being  political 
with  a  woman?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  193 

"  It  needs  more  than  politics,"  said  I,  smiling,  "  if 
one's  going  to  get  the  better  of  her.  Can't  you  tell 
me  why  you  want  me  to  stay?  " 

"  No  —  I  can't." 

"  Well,  now,  that 's  a  reasonable  answer,"  I  re- 
plied, "  for  now  I  know." 

"  You  can  know  as  much  as  you  like  if  you  stay 
until  Wednesday,  and  then  I  '11  tell  you  how  wrong 
you  were." 

So  I  have  agreed,  and  here  it  is  Sunday  morning. 
As  far  as  is  possible  I  know  it  has  something  to  do 
with  Clarissa.  Beyond  that  I  am  absolutely  in  the 
dark. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  Bellwattle  asked  me  to 
come  out  with  her  for  the  last  time  to  see  the  cottage 
in  the  hollow,  and  as  we  walked  up  the  boreen  on  our 
way  to  the  cliff  I  determined,  at  the  expense  even  of 
my  honor,  to  try  and  surprise  her  into  the  truth. 

"  Being  a  woman,"  said  I,  suddenly,  "  you  really 
have  a  greater  sense  of  honor  than  I  have  as  a  man." 

She  glanced  at  me  oddly  with  that  one  suspecting 
eye. 

"  You  don't  think  that,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  going  to  prove  it,"  said  I.  "  I  'm  going  to 
betray  a  confidence  which  was  betrayed  to  me,  if  you 
will  promise  not  to  turn  round  and  betray  my  con- 
fidence in  you." 

"  Say  that  all  again,"  she  asked. 

I  repeated  it,  slowly  and  simply,  word  for  word. 

"  And  you  expect  me  to  keep  my  promise  of  se- 


194  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

crecy  when  you  and  somebody  else  have  broken 
yours?  " 

"  If  you  make  the  promise,"  said  I,  "  yes.  I  Ve 
said  that,  being  a  woman,  you  have  a  greater  sense 
of  honor  than  I.  I  'm  going  to  prove  that  I  believe 
it,  by  putting  myself  in  your  hands." 

She  gazed  steadily  in  front  of  her.  The  charm 
was  working  well.  I  could  see  it  in  her  eyes.  After 
accepting  that,  there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  world  who 
would  have  given  me  away. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  at  length. 

I  paused  for  a  moment  to  let  my  words  get  weight, 
and  then,  suddenly,  I  had  it  out. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  Cruikshank,"  I  asked,  "  that  I 
was  coming  to  live  in  the  cottage  next  year?  " 

She  knew  she  was  in  a  corner,  and  she  sought  to 
gain  time. 

"  When  did  he  tell  you  that?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Some  little  while  ago  in  the  garden.  Only  after 
he  'd  mentioned  it  did  he  remember  that  you  had  told 
him  not  to  speak  of  it.  Had  he  wilfully  broken  the 
confidence  I  should  n't  have  said  anything  about  it. 
But  no  blame  can  attach  itself  to  him,  and  I  want  to 
know." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  long  time  before  she  an- 
swered, after  which  there  came  from  her  one  of 
those  little  flashes  of  wisdom  wherewith  at  moments 
she  surprises  you  so  much. 

"  When  a  woman  hopes  for  a  thing  very  much," 
she  answered,  "  she  always  says  that  it  is  going  to  be. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  195 

Every  woman  can  bear  disappointment.  She  has  to 
bear  it  all  her  life.  But  you  kill  her  when  you  take 
away  hope.  Men  always  say  the  reverse,  because 
they  know  they  can  never  bear  the  disappointment. 
That 's  the  sort  of  reason  why  I  told  Cruikshank 
you  were  coming  here  next  year.'* 

That  was  all  the  success  I  got  out  of  my  surpris- 
ing her,  an  expression  of  sympathy  and  appreciation 
for  myself  so  delicately  conveyed  that  it  robbed  me 
of  all  power  to  wonder  whether  it  were  the  truth. 
She  wanted  me  to  come  and  live  there.  I  wondered 
then  if,  when  I  got  back  to  London,  she  would  accept 
from  me  the  present  of  one  of  those  Victorian  sun- 
bonnets  to  wear  when  she  walks  about  on  these 
cliffs.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  asked  her. 

She  laughed  out  loud,  and  said  I  was  the  oddest 
man  she  had  ever  met.  It  did  not  seem  so  odd  to  me. 

"  Will  you  let  me  send  you  one?  "  said  I. 

"  Of  course." 

"And  you  '11  wear  it?" 

"  I  shall  love  it." 

1  Then,  when  I  come  next  summer,"  said  I,  "  I 
shall  see  you  in  it." 

We  were  laughing  about  it  after  we  had  reached 
the  cliffs  when  suddenly  there  came  the  figure  of  a 
man  along  the  winding  path.  He  was  alone,  and 
even  though  I  knew  but  few  of  the  people  in  Bally- 
sheen  by  sight  there  seemed  to  me  something  famil- 
iar in  his  presence  there. 

"Who's  this?  "I  asked. 


196  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  Ve  never  seen  him  before,"  she  replied. 

But  as  he  came  nearer  a  memory  seemed  to  quiver 
in  my  mind.  I  had  seen  him.  But  where  ?  Where  ? 
It  was  as  he  passed  us  in  silence  that  I  remembered. 
For  in  that  moment  his  eyes  looked  with  recogni- 
tion into  mine.  In  the  flash  of  that  moment  it  all 
came  back.  In  the  restaurant  —  that  night  at  sup- 
per—  talking  to  that  woman  over  their  coffee  and 
liqueur  —  Clarissa's  lover  —  the  man  I  had  come 
to  hate. 

"  My  God !  "  I  muttered,  when  he  had  gone  by, 
and  as  I  looked  up  into  Bellwattle's  face  her  cheeks 
were  quite  white. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  Sunday  it  is  Cruikshank's  custom  to  rest  from 
his  labors  in  the  garden.  The  custom  is  not  one  of 
hypocrisy.  He  does  it,  not  that  he  may  be  seen  of 
others,  but,  as  I  fully  believe,  because  there  is  a 
depth  of  religious  sentiment  within  him,  which  one 
would  never  suspect.  This  does  not  absolutely  deter 
him  from  those  little  attentions  to  his  flowers  and 
his  rose  trees  which  no  gardener,  however  religious 
his  scruples  may  be,  would  ever  describe  as  work. 
That  knife  with  the  handle  of  horn  is  for  ever  within 
reach  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat  —  a  little  tangle  of 
bass  is  always  ready  to  hand  should  a  drooping 
plant  or  an  overweighted  stem  demand  it,  and  with 
these  little  accessories  before  the  fact,  he  wanders 
up  and  down  his  garden  paths,  his  mind  in  such  spirit 
of  contentment  as  I  would  give  my  forty  years  of 
idleness  to  possess. 

"  It 's  the  number  seven  I  like,"  he  says.  "  I  like 
the  idea  of  an  omnipotent  power  moulding  a  massive 
world,  hammering  and  chiselling  it,  never  allowing 
it  a  moment  of  stillness  in  which  to  set,  keeping  it 
always  moving,  always  in  the  making  for  six  mighty 
ages  and  then,  upon  the  seventh,  with  tired  hands, 
leaving  it  to  its  well-earned  rest.  The  Sabbath  in  its 


198  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

relation  to  dogma  means  very  little  indeed.  It 's 
what  it  means  in  its  relation  to  work  that  I  like.  It 
can't  honor  God  that,  for  one  day  in  the  week  we 
do  nothing.  What  honors  Him  is  the  work  we 
have  done  in  the  six  which  makes  the  seventh  of 
necessity  a  day  of  rest." 

And  as  he  says  all  this,  Bellwattle  watches  him 
with  admiring  eyes.  I  think  she  marvels  a  little  at 
his  accurate  use  of  the  big  words.  She  would  like 
herself  to  be  able  to  say  —  omnipotent  —  and  to 
say  it  as  he  does  in  the  right  place.  Wherefore 
when  he  has  finished,  she  turns  to  me  with  a  gentle 
expression  that  expects  my  approval. 

"I  think  he's  quite  right,  don't  you?"  she  asks. 

Whereupon  I  bend  my  head  and  Cruikshank 
moves  away  down  the  herbaceous  border,  with  an 
end  of  bass  sticking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  pocket. 

"  What  does  the  Rector  say  about  these  opin- 
ions? "  I  asked  her  one  Sunday. 

"  I  don't  think  he  understands  them,"  she  replied. 
"  Cruikshank  did  say  something  about  it  once  and 
the  Rector  jumped  down  his  throat.  *  My  dear 
Townshend,'  he  said,  '  if  everybody  held  your 
views,  we  should  n't  be  able  to  keep  a  church  open. 
Everybody  would  be  doing  just  what  they  like  on 
Sundays.' ' 

"  And  what  did  Cruikshanlc  say?  " 

"  He  asked  him  whether  he  thought  it  was  better 
to  make  them  do  the  things  they  did  n't  like." 

"And  the  Rector?" 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  199 

"  He  never  said  another  word.  He  went  straight 
back  to  the  —  what  do  you  call  it?  —  the  Rectory  or 
the  Victory?" 

"  In  this  case,"  said  I,  "  not  being  the  victor,  you 
call  it  the  Rectory." 

"  Well,  that 's  where  he  went,"  said  she. 

My  last  Sunday  in  Ballysheen  was  no  different  to 
the  rest,  no  different  unless  I  count  as  an  integral 
part  of  it  the  news  that  was  brought  to  us  that  day. 

Every  moment  since  our  meeting  with  Clarissa's 
lover  on  the  cliffs,  I  had  been  working  my  mind  to 
arrive  at  some  understanding  of  his  coming  to  Bally- 
sheen.  From  the  look  in  Bellwattle's  face  as  we 
passed  him,  I  felt  assured  that  she  knew  who  it  was 
and,  instinctive  though  her  knowledge  must  have 
been,  I  could  not  but  feel  she  had  some  ground  for 
her  belief.  It  was  no  difficult  step  from  such  assump- 
tion to  connect  her  knowledge  with  that  visit  which 
she  had  paid  to  the  Miss  Fennells'  house.  Had  she 
then  seen  Clarissa?  Had  Clarissa  told  her  he  was 
coming?  But  if  she  had  known  so  surely  as  that, 
why  was  her  face  so  white?  The  sight  of  him  had 
startled  her.  Why  should  it,  if  she  had  known? 

I  determined  that  Sunday  afternoon  to  make  an 
end  of  mystery  and  question  her  myself. 

In  the  morning  it  had  been  raining  —  those  sud- 
den intermittent  showers  which  April  lends  to  May, 
when  the  great  clouds  roll  up  the  blue  highways 
like  the  dust  of  a  vast  army  on  its  march.  From  the 
window  in  his  little  study  whose  walls  are  lined  with 


2OO  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

books  that  talk  of  gardens  the  great  gardeners  have 
made,  Cruikshank  watched  each  shower  with  the 
happy  delight  of  a  child.  Then,  as  the  rain  drops 
began  their  gentle  kettle-drumming  on  the  pane,  he 
would  look  round. 

"  This  is  fine  —  we  wanted  this  badly." 

"  It  '11  make  tea  out  of  doors  impossible,"  said 
Bellwattle. 

But  Cruikshank  shook  his  head. 

"  It  '11  have  cleared  off  by  lunch-time,"  he  replied. 
And  he  was  right.  As  we  sat  down  to  lunch,  the 
bright  white  sun,  looking  as  though  the  passage  of 
those  clouds  had  burnished  it,  rolled  out  into  the 
strip  of  blue  which  so  anxiously  I  had  been  stitching 
into  Dutchmen's  trousers  all  the  morning.  When 
the  meal  was  over,  we  walked  out  into  the  garden. 

There  is  such  color  in  Ireland  after  rain,  as  you 
will  never  see  in  any  other  country  in  the  world. 
Blues,  purples  and  greens,  deep  as  the  dyes  they 
knew  of  in  Tyre  and  Sidon,  spread  far  away  into 
every  distance  that  your  eyes  can  find.  Across  the 
Bay  of  Ballysheen,  as  we  stood  there  then,  the  purple 
cliffs  of  Helvic  Head  sank  nobly  down  into  a  sea  of 
emerald.  On  the  far  horizon  rose  the  misty  moun- 
tains, blue  as  the  light  of  moonstones  in  the  sun. 

"  And  this  is  what  I  am  going  to  leave  behind," 
said  I. 

Cruikshank  laid  a  hand  affectionately  on  my 
shoulder. 

"  You  Ve   only   to   say   the   word   and   I  '11   get 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  201 

Tierney  to  go  up  to  the  cottage  in  the  hollow  to- 
morrow morning." 

I  shook  my  head  and  tried  to  laugh.  It  was  so 
like  his  goodness,  and  seemed  so  impossible  to  me 
then.  So  he  turned  away  and  strolled  down  by  the 
beds'  where  by  now  his  Lady  Grizels  and  his  Young 
Lord  Nelsons  are  no  longer  babies  together  in  their 
kindergarten,  but  young  women  and  young  men  with 
all  the  summer  of  life  stretched  out  before  them. 

"  So  you  Ve  really  made  up  your  mind?  "  said 
Bell  wattle. 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,"  I  replied.  "  I  don't  think  you 
know  what  it  is  to  be  alone."  I  waited  then  to 
get  a  pause,  and  after  it  I  turned  to  her  suddenly 
and  said,  "  Did  you  know  who  that  man  was  we 
passed  yesterday?  " 

"No,"  she  replied,  nervously.     "Who?" 

"  Clarissa's  lover  —  the  man  she 's  going  to 
marry." 

"Are  you  sure?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  Ts  going  to  marry  him?  " 

"  For  that  matter,"  said  I,  "  what  do  you  know 
about  it  at  all?" 

It  was  then  she  told  me  everything.  For  this 
had  been  the  meaning  of  her  visit  to  Clarissa.  It 
seems  on  that  day  when  I  had  returned  from  the 
cliffs,  that  my  failure  had  been  written  in  my  face. 
She  assured  me  she  had  read  it  there.  And  so,  when 
I  announced  that  I  must  bring  my  visit  to  a  close, 


2O2  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

she  made  certain  in  her  mind  of  all  that  had  taken 
place.  But  it  is  not  only  that  a  woman  has  instincts 
in  these  matter;  she  acts  upon  them. 

"  Upon  a  slender  thread  like  that,"  said  I,  "  you 
go  to  see  Clarissa?" 

"Why  not?    I  knew  I  was  right." 

"  You  knew  you  were  right?  Without  asking  me 
for  proof  of  it?  " 

"  Proof  does  n't  help,"  she  replied.  "  It  does  n't 
make  things  any  more  real." 

And  in  that  one  sentence  I  received  a  clearer  view 
into  the  subtle  reasoning  of  a  woman's  intuition; 
for  reasoning  there  is  in  it,  an  unconscious  reason- 
ing from  impressions  rather  than  facts,  whereby  she 
needs  no  proof  and  shuns  the  sharp  edges  of  a  fact 
lest  they  should  destroy  the  sensitive  surface  of  her 
mind. 

"  So  you  go  straight  to  Clarissa?  "  said  I. 

"  It 's  never  any  good  saying  anything  to  a  man," 
she  answered.  "  I  could  hear  in  your  voice,  when 
you  said  you  were  going  back  to  London,  that  you 
had  made  up  your  mind.  Talking  won't  do  any 
good  to  a  man  when  he  's  got  as  far  as  that.  I  went 
to  Clarissa." 

"  Where  you  found  that  all  your  suppositions  had 
been  wrong.  You  found  that  I  had  never  met  her 
before.  You  found  that  I  am  not  in  love  with  her. 
You  found  that  she  hates  the  very  sight  of  me. 
Weren't  you  surprised?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  she. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  203 

Now  what  is  the  good  of  one  illuminating  sen- 
tence against  an  answer  so  complex  and  incompre- 
hensible as  this?  As  surely  as  a  woman  gives  you 
the  key  to  her  nature,  so  surely  will  you  find  the  bar- 
rel of  it  stuffed  with  wax.  She  had  learnt  that  she 
was  wrong  on  every  point  and  she  was  not  surprised. 

4  You  expected,  then,  to  have  all  your  beliefs 
dashed  to  the  ground?  "  I  said.  "  You  knew,  when 
you  thought  I  was  in  love,  that  you  would  find  you 
were  mistaken?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

*  Then  why  no  surprise  to  find  you  were  —  all  at 
sea?" 

"  But  I  did  n't  find  that.  I  did  n't  find  I  was 
mistaken.  I  found  I  was  right.  One  thing  did  sur- 
prise me  —  I  must  admit  that.  I  thought  you  must 
have  met  her  before.  But  I  quite  expected  to  find 
that  you  were  in  love  with  her  and  that  she  hated 
you.  So  why  should  I  be  surprised?  " 

"My  God!"  said  I,  "can't  you  talk  seriously 
about  a  matter  like  this?  You  know  the  truth  now 
—  you  know  just  how  much  of  a  fool  I  Ve  been. 
Why  go  on  talking  about  my  being  in  love  with 
Clarissa?  It 's  ridiculous.  I  'm  not  a  romantic  little 
boy.  You  must  know  how  useless  it  would  be  for 
me  to  let  myself  drift  into  an  affection  for  any 
woman.  Women  take  no  violent  fancies  for  me.  I 
don't  blame  'em.  So  for  Heaven's  sake,  when  I  go 
and  make  a  fool  of  myself  on  a  woman's  behalf, 
don't  imagine  that  I  'm  in  love  with  her.  What  did 


2O4  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

you  do?     When  you  found  everything  as  you  say 
you  'd  expected  it  —  what  did  you  do?  " 

She  sat  down  on  the  seat  beneath  the  nut  trees 
and  she  motioned  to  me  to  sit  beside  her. 

"  I  gave  her  my  advice,"  said  she. 

"What  was  that?" 

"  I  believed  that  every  word  you  'd  said  about 
him  was  true." 

"  More  than  true,"  said  I. 

"  So  I  told  her  what  to  do.  I  told  her  to  write 
to  him." 

"Saying  what?" 

"  Saying  that  she  could  not  wait  for  him  any 
longer;  that  if  he  did  not  come  and  marry  her  at 
once,  she  would  go  straight  back  to  Dominica." 

"  My  Godl  "  said  I,  "  and  he  's  come!  " 

"  I  know,  but  that  does  n't  mean  he  is  going  to 
marry  her." 

At  that  moment  I  felt  almost  contemptuous  of 
her  intelligence.  I  knew  what  folly  she  had  done. 

'  When  a  man  is  after  a  woman's  money,"  said  I, 
"  he  's  said  good-bye  to  the  faintest  sense  of  honor. 
He  '11  marry  her  right  enough.  She  wrote,  of 
course?  " 

"  She  said  she  would." 

"  Did  she  say  anything  about  me?  " 

"  Nothing  at  first." 

"  But  she  said  something?  " 
1  Yes  —  she  wanted  to  know  why  you  had  come 
all  that  way  to  tell  her  what  you  did." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  205 

"Well—" 

"  I  told  her  it  was  because  you  were  different  to 
every  other  man  I  had  ever  met  except  one." 

"Who?" 

"  Cruikshank." 

'  What  do  you  mean?  " 

'  What  I  say.  I  believe  Cruikshank  would  have 
done  the  same  before  he  married  me." 

I  laughed  —  bitterly. 

'  There  's  no  more  resemblance  between  Cruik- 
shank and  me,"  said  I,  "  than  between  a  Chinee  and 
a  Red  Indian.  We  're  at  opposite  poles.  At  the 
Varsity  he  was  mathematics,  I  was  classics.  There  's 
the  difference  in  a  nutshell." 

'*  We  won't  argue  it,"  she  replied.  "  I  know 
what  I  mean  and  that 's  what  I  told  her.  She  asked 
me  if  you  had  not  done  it  out  of  spite." 

"What  did  you  say  then?" 

"  I  just  took  her  little  face  in  my  hands  and  I 
kissed  her  —  she  is  so  pretty  to  kiss." 

And  then  Bellwattle  paused. 

"Yes  —  yes — "  said  I  —  that  pause  frightened 
me.  I  wanted  her  to  finish  her  sentence. 

"  I  kissed  her,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  told  her  that 
when  she  was  a  little  older  she  'd  know  that  there 
are  only  three  things  that  make  a  man  move  out  of 
a  spot  where  he  's  comfortable." 

'  You  're  a  clever  — "  and  then  I  stopped.  I  re- 
membered how  the  word  "  woman  "  had  silenced  her 
once  before.  "  Go  on,"  said  I ;  "  what  are  they?  " 


206  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Work  —  fresh  air  —  adventure." 

Now  there  is  a  lot  of  sense  in  that.  I  know  a 
man  who  would  have  said,  "  Wine  —  women  and 
horses."  And  not  only  would  he  have  thought  it 
sounded  well,  but  he  would  have  believed  it  to  be 
true. 

"  Did  you  convince  her?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  One  never  can  know.  A  woman's 
convictions  are  things  that  grow  in  the  dark.  She 
never  knows  whether  they  have  blossomed  until  she 
suddenly  has  to  take  them  out  in  the  light.  I  told 
her  that  you  were  the  best  friend  she  could  possi- 
bly have.  I  told  her  where  you  lived  in  London 
—  that  you  lived  all  alone  with  your  dog  —  I  told 


"  Good  Lord  I  You  did  n't  tell  her  I  was  in  love 
with  her  I  " 

"  No  —  of  course,  I  did  n't.    Because  you  're  not." 

"What  then?" 

"  I  told  her  that  if  she  ever  was  in  trouble  she 
was  to  go  to  you." 

"  You  think  she  will  go  to  London  then?  " 

"  No." 

4  Then  why  did  you  say  that?" 

"  To  show  her  that  I  expected  she  would.  I  don't 
know  women  who  do  what  you  expect  them  to." 

I  was  just  about  to  laugh  at  that,  when  the  gate 
upon  the  drive  opened,  and  through  the  golden  hedge 
of  barberry  we  saw  the  Miss  Fennells  walk  up 
towards  the  house. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  207 

"  What  have  they  come  for?  "  I  asked. 

"  They  often  come  on  Sunday  afternoons,"  she 
replied,  easily.  "  They  won't  stay  long  —  you 
need  n't  be  afraid.  They  have  to  drink  five  other 
cups  of  tea  at  five  other  different  houses." 

A  moment  later  came  the  tea  with  the  Miss  Fen- 
nells  demurely  following. 

"  It  almost  looks  as  if  they  'd  brought  it  with 
them,"  said  I. 

They  came  on  chance,  they  said,  but  the  tea  belied 
them.  I  saw  Cruikshank  raise  his  head,  like  the 
guardian  of  a  herd,  as  he  caught  the  sound  of  their 
voices,  then  on  tip-toe  he  crept  through  an  opening 
in  the  hedge  that  gives  access  to  a  path  leading  to 
the  farmyard.  I  suppose  he  had  tea  with  the  farmer. 
He  never  appeared  again  till  they  had  gone. 

It  was  as  they  rose  to  leave  that  Miss  Teresa  held 
out  her  hand,  and  said:  "I  wish  you  could  have 
met  our  nephew,  Mr.  Bellairs.  It  would  be  so  nice 
for  you  to  know  each  other  in  London.  I  would 
have  told  him  to  look  you  up  there,  but  I  did  n't 
know  your  address." 

I  thanked  Heaven  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
that  she  did  not.  It  would  be  difficult  to  know  the 
best  thing  to  do  with  that  young  man  if  he  came 
round  to  Mount  Street. 

;<  Where  does  he  live  in  London?"  I  asked,  po- 
litely. 

She  gave  me  the  address  of  his  rooms  in  Chelsea, 
and  I  made  a  mental  note  of  it. 


208  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  He  's  gone  already,  then?  "  said  I,  with  a  wild 
hope  rising  in  me. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  he  went  yesterday  with  Miss  Fawdry. 
They  're  to  be  married  from  my  sister's  house  in 
London  directly  they  get  over." 

There  may  have  been  more  said  than  that  before 
they  actually  departed.  I  cannot  recall  a  word  of 
it,  for  after  that  I  knew  my  failure  was  complete. 
She  had  gone  to  learn  the  bitter  lesson  of  forgetful- 
ness,  and  I  was  powerless  to  help  her  now. 

"  You  need  n't  come  to  the  gate,"  whispered  Bell- 
wattle  in  my  ear;  so  when  I  had  shaken  hands  with 
them  I  sat  down  again  on  the  seat  under  the  nut 
trees  trying  to  see  one  faint  glimmer  of  hope  where 
there  was  none. 

It  was  then,  as  ever  he  does  when  life  is  offering 
me  of  its  blackest,  that  Dandy  came  and,  sitting 
down  at  my  feet,  stared,  full  of  comprehension,  into 
my  face. 

"  Well,  old  fella,"  said  I,  "  she  's  gone.  It 's  all 
over.  It  was  never  suggested  —  where  all  these 
things  are  arranged  —  it  was  never  suggested  that 
I  should  help  a  woman  in  distress.  They  won't  take 
it  from  me  —  they  don't  think  I'm  quite  capable 
of  telling  the  truth  because  I  'm  so  damned  ugly." 

Why  he  did  it  then  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me 
understand;  but  he  repeated  a  trick  that  I  had 
taught  him  when  he  was  a  wild,  young  puppy  all 
energy  and  no  manners  —  a  trick  he  had  never  taken 
to  because  it  hurt  his  dignity.  When  he  found  that 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  209 

he  could  get  all  he  wanted  in  life  without  it  he  gave 
it  up.  I  had  not  seen  him  do  it  for  two  years  or 
more;  but  he  did  it  then. 

"  I  'm  so  damned  ugly,"  I  repeated. 

Whereupon  he  sat  up  on  his  hind  paws  and 
begged. 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER  I 

SUMMER  and  autumn  both  have  come,  both  have 
gone.  It  is  nearly  two  months  since  I  saw  the  last 
leaf  fall  from  the  plane  tree  beneath  which  I  sit  so 
often  in  the  Park,  whose  canopy  of  foliage  is  the 
roof  of  one  of  my  little  theatres.  I  cannot  re- 
member ever  having  realized  the  passing  of  a  sea- 
son so  actually  as  I  did  that  day  when  this  poor,  dead, 
shrivelled  thing,  which  once  had  worn  its  glossy 
green,  came  fluttering  down  into  the  mud.  I  watched 
it  as  it  circled  and  twisted.  It  was  like  the  feeble 
flight  of  one  of  those  tired  butterflies  which  have 
hibernated  in  some  sheltered  place  until  the  first 
treacherous  day  of  sunshine  has  brought  them  forth 
to  buffet  and  destroy  them.  It  was  so  much  at  the 
mercy  of  the  faintest  wind  that  blew.  As  it  lay 
there  in  the  mud,  I  looked  above  me  at  the  blackened 
branches.  It  had  been  the  last  leaf  to  fall.  Both 
summer  and  autumn  had  gone.  A  few  minutes  later 
there  passed  by  one  who,  unthinkingly,  crushed  it  be- 
neath his  foot,  and  with  that  it  reverted  to  the  dust 
once  more  from  which  originally  it  had  come  —  into 
.which  inevitably  it  was  destined  to  return. 

I  remembered  then  that  I  got  up  from  my  seat 
and  walked  slowly  from  the  Park.  As  I  passed  out 


214  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

t 
of  the  gates  and  turned  towards  Piccadilly,  they  were 

beginning  to  light  up  in  the  windows  of  the  clubs. 
I  chose  the  opposite  pavement,  looking  up  into  the 
different  windows  as  I  went  by.  Every  one  of  them 
offered  the  same  picture  —  men  of  ease  and  leisure, 
reading  their  evening  papers  over  cups  of  tea.  I 
wondered  what  would  be  their  replies  if,  into  each 
room,  I  had  walked  announcing  that  I  had  just  seen 
the  last  leaf  fall  from  the  plane  trees  in  the  Park. 
In  my  mind's  eye  I  could  see  them,  one  and  all,  look- 
ing at  me  in  disgust  for  bringing  such  news,  then 
burying  themselves  again  in  their  papers,  goading 
their  minds  to  forgetfulness  by  reading  the  latest 
report  of  whatever  sensation  the  moment  had  to  offer 
them. 

"  Perhaps  I  'm  the  only  man  in  London,"  I  said 
to  myself,  "  who  knows  that  this  is  the  very  last  day 
of  autumn  " ;  and  then,  as  I  thought  shudderingly 
of  the  long  winter  and  the  lightless  fogs  before  us, 
I  suddenly  remembered  Bellwattle's  words : 

u  There  is  no  winter." 

What  a  philosophy  to  be  able  to  believe  that. 

But  now  the  real  tragedy  had  come  to  me.  It 
was  not  that  I  was  unable  to  believe  there  is  no 
winter;  it  had  come  to  me  by  this  that  I  could  not  but 
remember  there  was.  That  little  trick  of  forgetful- 
ness,  whereby  you  close  the  eyes  of  all  consciousness, 
turning  your  night  into  day,  the  cunning  of  that  had 
gone  from  me  since  I  had  been  in  Ireland.  My  sup- 
per-room, with  its  bright  lights  and  its  suggestive 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  215 

music,  had  no  longer  in  its  finger-bowls  the  waters 
of  Lethe.  I  could  only  remember  that  it  was  winter 
outside,  that  people  were  cold  and  hungry,  that  in 
the  hidden  places  of  this  great  city  there  were  those 
who  had  neither  fire  nor  food  to  warm  them. 

How  I  lived  through  those  two  months  since 
that  last  leaf  fell  from  my  plane  tree  I  scarcely  know. 
Depression  came  regularly  to  me  every  day,  as  though 
I  had  entered  her  into  my  service.  She  slipped  into 
the  room  with  Moxon  and  Dandy  in  the  morning 
when  they  brought  me  my  tea  and  then,  while  it 
grew  lukewarm  in  the  pot,  I  would  lie  staring  out  of 
the  window  into  the  grey  light  of  the  ill-weaned 
morning,  thinking  of  that  day  when  with  such  hope 
in  my  heart  I  had  set  out  to  meet  Clarissa,  when 
with  such  bitter  knowledge  of  my  folly  I  had  re- 
turned. 

Now,  however,  it  is  January.  The  days  truly 
seem  no  longer,  though  we  have  passed  that  shortest 
day  in  December,  when  Hope,  like  a  freshening  bud, 
begins  to  swell  again.  I  have  not  felt  it  swelling 
within  me,  yet  I  do  my  best  to  drive  depression  away. 

I  have  bought  window-boxes  for  all  my  windows, 
and  this  morning  went  down  with  Dandy  to  Covent 
Garden  to  purchase  bulbs  for  the  early  spring.  Snow- 
drops and  crocuses  they  tell  me  are  the  first  to  flower. 
As  if  I  did  not  know!  Though  possibly  they  were 
quite  right  to  say  it.  There  may  be  many  here  who 
are  so  sadly  ignorant. 

I  asked  the  man  who  stands  under  that  awning, 


2i 6  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

where  all  the  little  boxes  of  tiny  seedlings  are  ranged, 
tier  upon  tier,  I  asked  him  at  what  time  of  the  year 
should  I  sow  sweet  peas. 

I  had  a  sudden  fancy  to  see  my  own  Lady  Grizel 
In  their  bright  green  pinafores,  growing  up  with  their 
.Young  Lord  Nelsons  in  a  kindergarten  of  my  own 
making. 

"  I  suppose  they  ought  to  be  sown  soon?  "  I  asked. 

"  'Ave  yer  got  a  light?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  much  as  there  is  these  days,"  said  I. 

Then  we  stared  at  each  other,  for  by  his  look  I 
felt  I  had  not  understood,  and  by  my  words  he  made 
certain  I  had  not. 

Presently  he  tried  me  again. 

"'Ave  yer  got  a  light?" 

"  Now  what  do  you  mean?  "  said  I.  "  I  Ve  got 
boxes  outside  my  window.  There  's  as  much  light 
there  as  you  '11  get  anywhere." 

His  look  was  not  contemptuous,  but  it  hurt  me  as 
if  it  were. 

"  A  light,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  is  a  large  box  with 
lights  to  it  —  like  a  small  green'ouse  it  is,  for  to  force 
plants  in.  Open  the  lights  in  the  daytime  and  they 
gets  all  the  air  they  want.  Close  'em  at  night  and 
they  don't  get  no  frosts." 

I  understood  at  once;  but  had  he  said  frames,  I 
think  I  should  have  known  sooner. 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  have  n't  got  any,"  said  I.  "  If 
1  had  I  should  have  no  place  to  put  them  in.  I  Ve 
just  got  a  few  window-boxes  —  that 's  all." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  217 

I  think  he  did  look  at  me  contemptuously  then. 
If  he  had  had  the  seeds  of  sweet  peas  to  sell  he 
might  have  been  more  considerate,  but  dealing  in  no 
other  plants  save  bulbs,  he  lost  nothing  by  setting 
me  to  rights. 

'  'Ave  yer  ever  tried  growin'  sweet  peas  in  Lon- 
don?" he  asked,  "growin'  'em  in  winder-boxes?" 

"  If  I  had,"  said  I,  "  should  I  come  and  ask  you 
when  to  plant  them?" 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  excellent  reasoning.  The 
smile  of  pity  for  my  ignorance  still  lingered  in  his 
face. 

;t  Well,  you  try,"  he  continued.  "  See  if  yer  can 
get  'em  a  foot  'igh  —  an'  if  there  's  a  blossom  on 
'em,  bring  it  ter  me  an'  I  '11  give  yer  sixpence  for  it  as 
a  curiosity." 

'  You  should  n't  throw  your  money  about  like 
that,"  said  I.  "  It 's  extravagant  of  you.  But  I 
hope  I  should  n't  take  advantage  of  it.  You  may  see 
my  blossom  of  sweet  pea.  In  fact,  I'll  bring  it  down 
to  you ;  but  I  would  n't  deprive  you  of  your  six- 
pence for  the  world." 

At  that  he  got  cross.  I  was  annoyed  myself.  It 
is  one  thing  to  be  made  aware  of  your  ignorance  and 
quite  another  to  have  it  thrown  back  in  your  face. 
He  knew  by  the  tone  in  my  voice  that  he  had  irri- 
tated me,  thereby  losing  a  possible  customer.  No 
doubt  it  was  that  which  first  ruffled  his  temper.  He 
liked  me  no  less  for  my  chaffing  allusions  to  his  six- 
pence, and  in  a  desperate  effort  to  get  even  with  me, 


218  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

he  looked  me  up  and  down,  assessing  the  possible 
value  of  my  clothes.  They  were  not  my  best,  but 
probably  he  did  not  know  that. 

"  Yer  're  very  'igh  and  mighty  —  aren't  yer?  " 
said  he.  "  Sixpence  is  nuffin  to  you,  is  it?  Why  I 
could  buy  you  up  and  not  feel  the  weight  of  it  gone 
out  of  me  pocket." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  could,"  I  replied.  "  I  don't  doubt 
that  for  a  moment.  But  you  must  remember  there  's 
a  little  difference  between  us.  I  'm  not  for  sale.  You 


are." 


Then,  when  I  asked  him  if  there  was  another 
place  in  the  market  where  I  could  buy  bulbs,  he  was 
too  red  in  the  face  to  answer  me. 

I  suppose  in  a  way  I  got  the  best  of  it.  I  had  the 
last  word,  which  is  the  victor's  perquisite  in  these 
matters.  But  it  left  a  strange  feeling  of  dissatis- 
faction in  my  mind.  For  however  much  to  the  point 
my  retort  may  have  been,  he  knew  more  about  flowers 
and  gardens  than  I  did,  and  since  I  have  been  to 
Ballysheen  I  have  come  to  judge  of  people  by  their 
knowledge  and  love  of  the  treasures  that  the  earth 
brings  forth.  For  all  my  smartness,  I  counted  him 
a  cleverer  man  than  myself. 

But  it  was  not  that  only  which  made  me  heavy  of 
heart  as  I  walked  away  to  find  another  seedsman; 
it  was  the  information  I  had  been  given  by  my  friend 
of  the  generous  purse.  I  could  not  grow  sweet  peas 
in  my  window-boxes.  For  that  matter,  could  I  grow 
anything  but  a  few  bulbs,  which  for  one  year  at  least 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  219 

will  blossom  anywhere,  since  they  feed  upon  them- 
selves? And  I  had  visions  of  eschscholtzias,  corn- 
flowers, asters,  gypsophila  —  the  Lord  knows  what 
—  all  names  that  I  had  heard  Cruikshank  make  such 
frequent  and  easy  use  of  —  names  which  Bellwattle 
loved  for  ever  to  be  rolling  on  her  tongue.  All  these, 
then,  I  supposed  would  be  denied  me. 

"  Dandy,"  said  I,  as  we  walked  down  King  Street 
from  the  Garden,  "  when  God  made  the  world,  I 
don't  believe  He  meant  there  to  be  any  cities,  or  why 
did  he  begin  with  a  garden?  Surely  a  city,  sterile 
and  fruitless  like  this,  can't  be  an  advancement  on  a 
garden?  " 

It  occurred  to  me  then  that  I  was  taking  a  very 
extreme  point  of  view;  a  point  of  view  without  any 
suggestion  of  that  logic  for  which  I  so  often  pride 
myself.  Of  course,  there  must  be  cities,  just  as  there 
must  be  workshops  in  a  world  where  work  is  to  be 
done.  But  they  go  home  from  workshops.  Nobody 
lives  in  a  workshop.  Why  don't  they  go  home,  then, 
from  cities?  It  is  a  sort  of  thing  that  Bellwattle 
would  say,  as  when  she  asked  why  they  could  not 
cover  up  a  field  of  corn  to  protect  it  from  the  rats. 
But  I  know  what  I  mean.  When  once  you  have  cast 
your  bread  upon  the  waters  of  a  great  city  you  never 
do  go  home.  The  workshop  is  your  fate  then  as 
long  as  you  live.  Telephones,  telegraphs,  all  throw 
out  their  clutching  tentacles,  dragging  you  back  into 
the  vortex  whenever  you  try  to  escape.  There  is  no 
escape.  You  steal  away  towards  home;  but  these 


22O  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

ghostly  arms  stretch  forth  and  you  are  sucked  back 
into  the  heart  of  it  once  more,  back  to  the  city  where 
the  flowers  will  not  blossom  —  the  city  of  oblivion. 

I  wonder  how  many  men  start  their  lives  with  a 
vision  that  one  day  they  will  win  their  garden  of 
remembrance?  I  wonder  how  long  it  takes  them 
before  they  join  in  that  crowd  of  men  and  women 
whose  eyes  ache  and  whose  feet  are  tired  as  they 
hasten  to  forget? 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  as  I  passed  out  of  King  Street  that  I  be- 
thought me  of  my  club;  of  the  hall-porter  there 
who  bears  a  reputation  for  rose-growing.  He  has 
a  strange  natural  ugliness  of  features  which  has 
often  drawn  me  to  converse  with  him  as  I  come  in 
or  go  out  of  the  building.  Our  discussions  are  none 
of  them  very  weighty  or  worthy  of  record.  I  remark 
upon  the  weather  while  I  wait  for  him  to  get  my 
letters ;  in  return  he  tells  me  of  his  troubles  with  the 
new  messenger  whose  medals  speak  well  for  the 
mightiness  of  his  chest  but,  as  the  hall-porter  assures 
me,  say  nothing  in  recommendation  of  his  intelligence. 

How  the  knowledge  of  this  amiable  hobby  of  rose- 
growing  came  to  be  known  of  him  by  the  members 
is  more  than  I  can  understand.  He  has  never  men- 
tioned it  to  me,  and  I  should  have  thought  that  such 
an  observation  as  "  A  bad  time  for  the  roses  "  would 
have  been  an  excellent  reply  to  some  of  my  meteoro- 
logical remarks. 

He  has,  however,  never  expressed  himself  in  that 
way  so  I  took  his  reputation  on  trust,  walked  straight 
into  the  club  and  asked  for  my  letters. 

"  Nothing  this  morning,  sir,"  said  he.    He  did  not 


222  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

even  look  in  the  little  pigeon-hole  marked  B.  This 
threw  me  back  at  once  upon  my  own  resources. 

"  What  sort  of  a  spring  do  you  think  we  're  going 
to  have?  "  I  inquired. 

He  peered  out  of  the  tiny  window  of  his  hall- 
porter's  house,  from  which  he  could  just  see  two 
square  feet  of  sky. 

"  It 's  difficult  to  say,  sir,"  said  he. 

It  must  have  been. 

"  Do  you  think  your  roses  will  do  well  this  year?  " 
I  went  on. 

He  took  off  his  glasses  and  looked  at  me.  All  the 
precise  expression  of  the  hall-porter  had  suddenly 
slipped  from  him.  I  could  detect  in  his  eyes  a  similar 
look  to  that  which  I  see  always  in  the  eyes  of  Cruik- 
shank  when  he  is  at  work  in  his  garden.  Can  this  be 
the  effect  of  just  one  word  —  roses  ?  Will  it  in  one 
moment  convert  a  man  from  a  machine  into  a  human 
being  with  just  that  light  of  Nature  in  his  eyes  as 
plucks  him  there  and  then  from  the  confusion  of  the 
crowd? 

"  How  did  you  know  I  went  in  for  roses,  sir?  " 
he  asked. 

I  said  that  I  had  heard  some  one  of  the  members 
mention  the  fact  and  it  had  interested  me. 

"  I  suppose  you  live  in  the  country?  "  I  added. 

He  shook  his  head,  wiped  his  glasses  —  seemingly 
to  no  purpose,  since  he  did  not  put  them  on  again  — 
and  pushed  aside  some  things  upon  his  desk  that  were 
not  the  least  in  the  way. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  223 

"  I  used  to,  sir;  last  year  I  did.  I  'd  a  little  place 
at  Loughton  in  Essex,  not  far  from  the  Forest  — 
Epping.  It  was  quite  the  country  there.  I  'd  a  nice 
bit  of  garden  and  a  friend  of  mine  living  next  door 
had  a  sort  of  nursery  —  a  greenhouse  and  some 
ground  —  and  he  used  to  give  me  plants  he  did  n't 
want.  But  it  was  too  far  away  comin'  up  here  in 
the  winter  early  of  a  morning.  So  I  got  nearer 
London." 

"  You  did  n't  give  up  your  garden,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  just  because  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  get  up  to 
Town?" 

"  Well,  it  did  n't  agree  with  the  wife,"  he  admitted. 
"  She  felt  lonely  down  there  with  me  up  here  all  day 
long.  Besides,  she  has  a  taste  for  the  theatres  and 
seein'  the  shops,  so  we  moved  up  to  Fulham.  It 's 
much  handier,  but,  of  course,  I  have  n't  got  a  garden, 
not  to  speak  of,  now." 

"How  much?" 

"  About  the  size  of  this  small  hall,  sir.  But  roses 
won't  grow  there.  I  Ve  tried,  giving  'em  all  the 
manure  I  could  get;  but  they  don't  take  to  Fulham. 
It's  easy  enough  to  get  manure  in  London,  sir; 
there  's  plenty  of  that  in  the  streets.  It 's  the  soil 
that 's  wanting." 

"  That 's  the  truest  description  of  a  city  I  ever 
heard,"  said  I.  And  then  I  asked  his  advice  about 
my  window-boxes.  He  took  an  immense  interest  in 
them ;  even  brought  out  a  seedman's  catalogue  from 
his  desk  and  went  so  thoroughly  into  the  subject  as 


224  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

made  me  in  time  imagine  that  we  were  dealing  with 
acres  instead  of  inches. 

So  now  I  have  bought  all  my  bulbs.  It  was  a  great 
day  when  they  were  planted.  With  a  table  fork 
which  Moxon  obtained  from  the  housekeeper's 
kitchen  we  prepared  our  beds,  and  all  the  while 
stood  Dandy  with  his  fore-paws  on  the  window-sill 
watching  the  operation  with  breathless  interest. 

As  I  put  them  in,  covering  the  mould  over  their 
little  brown  bodies,  I  looked  up  occasionally  at 
Moxon,  who  stood  by  with  his  mouth  wide 
open. 

"  Marvellous  thing,  is  n't  it,  Moxon?  "  said  I,  "  to 
think  that  these  little  bulbs  are  going  to  bring  up 
yellows  and  blues  and  pinks,  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow, just  out  of  themselves?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  that,  sir,"  said  he,  "  though  I 
don't  know  as  it 's  any  more  wonderful  than  a  woman 
having  babies." 

That  remark  is  characteristic  of  Moxon,  who  has 
sentiment  to  his  finger-tips  and  imagines  that  he 
never  shows  a  sign  of  it. 

"  My  God  I  "  said  I.  "  You  don't  mean  to  com- 
pare the  two  I  One  's  a  catastrophe  —  it  '11  be  a  very 
different  matter  when  these  crocuses  and  tulips  are 
delivered  of  their  flowers." 

I  saw  the  look  in  his  face  then  as  when  a  man  is  on 
the  verge  of  being  a  traitor  to  himself.  I  had  only 
to  press  the  matter  a  little  further  and  he  would  be 
abusing  the  wonderful  functions  of  maternity  in  order 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  225 

to  maintain  his  own  pathetic  sense  of  dignity.  I 
pressed  it  further  without  any  delay. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  'd  like  your  wife  to 
have  babies?  "  I  said,  as  I  laid  one  of  the  little  brown 
snowdrop  bulbs  under  the  mould  and,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Cruikshank,  tucked  the  clothes  well  over  its 
head.  "  You  would  n't  talk  of  it  as  a  splendid  event 
for  her,  would  you  ?  " 

I  could  see  him  thinking  how  wonderful  it  would  be 
if  he  had  a  wife;  how  still  more  wonderful  it  would 
be  if  she  gave  him  a  baby  of  his  very  own. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  I  was  not  married,  sir,"  he 
said,  presently. 

"  I  was  speaking  hypothetically,"  said  I. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  was  not  aware  of  that." 

Hypothetically  was  undoubtedly  beyond  him. 
Therefore,  "  I  was  supposing  that  you  were,"  I  added 
for  his  benefit.  "  And  if  you  were,  you  would  n't 
care  to  have  to  wheel  a  baby  out  in  a  pram,  would 
you?" 

"  God  forbid,"  said  he,  most  fervently. 

I  turned  my  face  from  him  as  I  planted  another 
bulb.  It  would  not  have  done  at  all  if  he  had  seen 
my  smile. 

"  Now  you  see,"  said  I,  "  how  odious  your  com- 
parison was.  You  would  n't  be  ashamed  to  be  seen 
out  with  one  of  these  snowdrops  in  your  button- 
hole?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir." 

"  But  you  exclaim  '  God  forbid '  when  I  suggest 


226  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

that  you  might  have  to  wheel  your  baby  out  in  a 
perambulator." 

This  treachery  to  himself  was  more  than  Moxon 
could  bear.  He  laid  down  the  bag  of  snowdrop  bulbs, 
leaving  Dandy  and  me  to  finish  the  business  by  our- 
selves. 

It  is  more  than  a  week  now  since  they  were  planted, 
and  almost  every  day  I  see  a  fresh  little  green  nose 
thrusting  its  way  out  of  the  mould.  At  first  the  joy  of 
these  discoveries  was  spoilt  in  a  great  measure  by 
Moxon,  who,  when  he  came  up  with  my  tea  in  the 
morning,  would  announce  the  arrival  of  another  cro- 
cus or  another  snowdrop  with  that  same  suppressed 
excitement  as  if  he  were  telling  me  of  an  addition  to 
the  household. 

"  All  right  —  all  right,  Moxon,"  I  said  testily,  one 
morning.  "  I  only  want  you  to  valet  me,  you  need  n't 
look  after  my  garden." 

That  must  have  been  a  very  early  morning  temper, 
or  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  ridiculousness  of 
calling  a  few  window-boxes  a  garden.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  I  was  jealous  and,  as  I  lay  drinking  my 
tea,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  behaving  like 
a  dog  in  my  own  manger.  The  next  morning,  there- 
fore, when  Moxon  came  in  with  the  tray,  I  asked  him 
whether  there  had  been  a  frost. 

"  Just  slightly,  sir,"  said  he. 

11  Have  they  suffered  at  all?  "  I  asked  quickly. 

"  Have  what  suffered,  sir?  " 

"  The  crocuses." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  227 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.    I  did  n't  look." 

Of  course  I  deserved  it;  but  it  is  the  things  which 
one  deserves  that  are  so  annoying.  I  determined  not 
to  be  done,  so  the  next  morning  before  Moxon's 
arrival,  I  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown  and  hurried 
softly  downstairs.  It  was  just  as  I  expected.  There 
was  Moxon,  bending  over  one  of  the  window-boxes 
and,  with  a  gentle  finger,  raking  away  the  mould  in 
places  to  see  if  he  could  find  any  more  crocuses  shoot- 
ing up  their  tender  green. 

"  Put  that  mould  back,  Moxon,"  I  said  severely. 

At  the  unexpected  sound  of  my  voice,  I  thought  the 

poor  man  would  have  fallen  out  of  the  window  into 

the  area  below.     "  What  are  you  doing?  "  I  added. 

'  Just  making  it  a  little  tidy,  sir.    That  was  all." 

I  let  it  go  at  that.  I  knew  he  would  never  trans- 
gress in  such  a  fashion  again.  I  believe,  moreover, 
that  it  is  always  best  to  leave  a  shred  of  dignity  with 
those  whom  you  would  admonish.  It  is  by  that  single 
shred  they  still  cling  to  you.  Deprive  them  of  it  and 
the  only  dignity  left  them  is  to  go  out  of  your  sight 
altogether. 

Thus  it  was,  with  my  snowdrops,  my  crocuses  and 
my  hyacinths  that  I  fought  my  battle  with  depression 
through  those  last  months  of  winter,  till  I  should  see 
the  first  hopeful  light  of  spring.  Twice  every  week 
also,  I  rose  betimes  in  the  morning  and  with  Dandy 
was  out  to  Covent  Garden  before  the  market  closed 
at  nine.  It  was  Moxon  who  first  informed  me  that 
I  could  get  flowers  cheaper  that  way.  Accordingly 


228  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

when  I  had  proved  the  truth  of  it,  I  filled  my  rooms 
with  them. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  know  about  this?"  I 
asked  him  when  one  fine  morning  I  had  returned  with 
an  armful  of  daffodils. 

"  I  go  there  sometimes  myself,  sir,"  he  replied; 
"  my  mother  's  a  fancy  for  those  sort  of  things,  and 
though  I  don't  'old  with  petting  women  up  with 
flowers,  I  send  them  to  her  occasionally  because  she  's 
an  invalid." 

"  It 's  bound  to  spoil  a  woman  if  you  send  her 
flowers?  "  I  said  solemnly. 

"  Bound  to,"  he  agreed. 

I  handed  him  a  bunch  of  daffodils. 

"  Smell  those,"  said  I. 

He  buried  his  face  in  them  and  breathed  as  though 
he  were  drawing  into  his  lungs  the  very  first  breath 
of  spring. 

"  Send  a  bunch  of  them  to  your  sister,"  I  added 
casually;  "  it  '11  cheer  her  up  if  she  's  still  taking  to 
religion." 

His  face  lit  up  with  a  wonderful  smile  of  gratitude. 

"  It 's  very  good  of  you,  sir,  —  I  can't  afford  daf- 
fodils yet  —  not  till  they  're  a  bit  cheaper.  Amy  will 
be  pleased." 

How  easy  it  is  to  spoil  women,  thought  I. 

Oh  —  but  that  morning  when  they  brought  the 
first  daffodils  into  market.  You  knew  then  you  had 
been  waiting  for  them  so  long,  as  on  some  dreary, 
lonely  road  you  stand,  long  waiting  for  the  mistress 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  229 

of  your  heart.  The  moments  pass  by  and  still  she 
does  not  come.  But  you  know  in  your  spirit  that  she 
cannot  fail.  When  last  you  met,  she  gave  her  promise 
and,  sooner  would  you  believe  the  heavens  might  fall, 
than  that  her  promise  should  be  broken.  But  sud- 
denly you  hear  her.  The  faint  distant  sound  of  her 
little  feet  comes  tapping  softly  along  the  road  into 
your  ears.  For  that  first  instant  your  heart  stops  its 
beating  that  you  might  hear  aright.  Then  nearer  she 
comes  and  nearer.  .  .  .  Another  moment  and  you 
can  dimly  discern  her  figure  against  a  darkening  belt 
of  trees.  The  footsteps  quicken,  for  by  this  time 
she  has  seen  you  too.  At  last  she  is  close  within 
your  arms,  and  her  cheek,  so  cool  and  damp  with  the 
dew  that  it  has  gathered,  is  laid  against  your  cheek. 

It  is  somehow  like  this  that  the  daffodils  are 
brought  one  frosty  morning  to  those  who  wait  for 
them  in  Covent  Garden. 

So  you  come  of  a  sudden  into  a  golden  glory.  A 
man  holds  out  a  bunch  before  you  and  says : 

"Nice  and  fresh,  sir;  only  picked  a  few  hours 
ago." 

Only  picked  a  few  hours  ago !  You  plunge  your 
face  in  them  as  into  cold  water,  and  they  too  are  cool 
and  damp  like  the  cheeks  of  your  little  mistress.  Like 
her  they  have  come  at  last  to  your  long  and  patient 
waiting. 


CHAPTER  III 

I  CAN  bear  no  longer  these  futile  speculations  of 
my  mind.  For  months  past  I  have  tried  to  keep  them 
under  subjection,  but  it  is  impossible  to  do  so  any 
more.  I  must  have  word  of  Clarissa.  Is  she  happy? 
Have  I  misjudged  that  young  man?  Perhaps  that 
evening  when  I  saw  him  in  the  restaurant  was  only 
a  momentary  lapse  of  conduct.  Maybe  I  have  done 
him  an  injury  and  she  is  happy  after  all. 

But  no  matter  how  often  I  put  these  questions  to 
myself,  they  return  again  unanswered.  I  have  an 
obstinate  belief  that  she  could  not  be  happy  with  him. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  is  this  uncertainty  about  Clarissa 
which  is  inducing  in  me  a  mood,  a  conviction  —  the 
conviction  that  I  have  about  run  the  length  of  my 
tether  and  there  is  but  little  left  for  me  but  to  snap  it 
and  have  done  with  the  business  altogether. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  man 
should  earn  his  meal  before  he  eats  it,  deserve  his 
sleep  before  he  takes  it  and,  above  all,  justify  his  ex- 
istence that  he  may  live.  Now  I  find  myself  putting 
the  question  to  my  mind  twenty  times  a  day  —  how 
in  the  name  of  Heaven  do  I  justify  mine?  It  is  un- 
answerable, or,  rather,  I  can  swear  it  too  well.  I 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  231 

do  not  justify  it  at  all.  Had  I  been  of  any  service 
to  Clarissa,  it  might  have  seemed  different.  But 
through  my  interference,  I  was  only  the  means  of 
spurring  her  destiny  to  its  end.  Certainly  Bellwattle 
intervened,  but  that  was  all  on  my  account.  Had 
I  not  gone  to  Ballysheen,  she  would  never  have  per- 
suaded that  poor  child  to  rush  so  recklessly  to  meet 
her  fate. 

Once  or  twice  I  have  written  to  Bellwattle,  making 
inquiries.  But  I  hear  nothing  that  can  be  of  much 
account.  She  tells  me  in  letters  wonderfully  misspelt, 
but  in  words  that  are  indeed  graphic  to  me,  how  the 
roses  are  doing,  of  the  baskets  full  of  sweet  peas  that 
she  picked  every  morning  all  through  the  summer. 
Yet  of  Clarissa,  she  gives  me  no  report,  except  that 
the  Miss  Fennells  say  how  they  receive  letters  from 
her,  telling  them  of  her  excitements  in  London  and 
how  happy  she  is  in  her  new  life. 

I  misdoubt  these  letters  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
They  do  not  ring  true.  So  at  last  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  a  definite  course  of  action.  I  am  going 
to  the  house  in  Chelsea,  the  address  of  which  was 
given  me  by  Miss  Teresa  that  Sunday  afternoon  be- 
fore I  left  Ballysheen.  If  by  this  step  I  gain  no  defi- 
nite news  of  her,  then  I  shall  hazard  one  final  chance. 
I  shall  go  and  call  upon  Mrs.  Farringdon,  that  mar- 
ried sister  of  the  Miss  Fennells  whose  address  Bell- 
wattle  has  discovered  for  me.  If  from  her  I  can 
elicit  nothing,  then  —  it  will  be,  as  Peter  Pan  so 
wisely  says,  "  a  great  adventure." 


232  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Having  thought  all  this  out,  quite  calmly  and  col- 
lectedly, I  called  Dandy. 

"  What  '11  be  done  with  you,  old  man?  "  I  asked. 

He  wagged  his  tail,  but  when  he  found  that  that 
was  not  the  right  answer  he  frowned. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  we  shall  have  to  do  with 
you,"  I  continued.  "  There 's  a  lady  in  Ireland 
who  'd  give  her  eyes  to  get  you.  That 's  where  you  '11 
go.  You  always  were  a  success  with  ladies,  were  n't 
you?" 

I  thought  he  would  have  wagged  his  tail  at  that, 
but  he  still  frowned  as  though  he  caught  the  note 
beneath  my  voice,  that  note,  I  suppose,  of  final  des- 
pair, when  a  man  knows  that  it  is  all  but  up  with 
him.  For  so  it  had  happened  to  me,  as  I  had  warned 
that  little  child  it  would  happen  to  her.  The  spirit 
in  me  was  broken.  I  felt  the  suspicion  in  every 
thought  that  I  was  done  for. 

It  is  when  one  comes  to  a  conclusion  as  definite 
as  this  that  one  can  throw  into  the  voice  a  spurious 
tone  of  cheerfulness,  which  is  the  final  admission  of 
defeat. 

I  rose  then  from  my  chair  with  a  laugh  and  called 
out  to  Dandy  that  we  were  setting  off  for  Chelsea. 
But  instead  of  leaping  about  me  in  his  dancing  way, 
as  he  does  whenever  he  hears  we  are  going  out  for  a 
walk,  he  crept  after  me,  close  at  my  heels,  and  all  the 
gaiety  was  gone  out  of  him.  I  determined  then  that 
if  the  worst  should  happen,  if  I  could  get  no  news  of 
Clarissa,  I  would  send  him  over  to  Bellwattle.  She 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  233 

would  take  care  of  him  for  his  own  sake  —  perhaps 
for  his  master's,  too. 

It  was  a  shabby  little  street  in  Chelsea  —  two  rows 
of  houses  on  either  side,  with  only  the  number  on 
the  lintels  to  differentiate  between  them.  A  strange 
mixture  of  apprehension  and  excitement  possessed 
me  as  I  approached  the  door.  What  if  I  should  find 
her  there?  What  could  I  say  if  I  did?  What  does 
a  man  say  after  an  absence  of  some  months  to  the 
woman  who  has  prayed  God  that  she  will  never  see 
him  again?  I  expect  he  leaves  the  matter  as  much 
to  chance  as  I  did. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  while  these  thoughts 
were  passing  through  my  mind,  I  rang  the  bell  and 
waited,  my  heart  hammering  wildly  in  all  my  pulses, 
till  I  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door.  Directly  it  reached  me  I  felt  quiet  and 
ready  for  whatever  should  come  to  pass. 

When  the  door  was  opened,  there  confronted  me 
an  elderly  woman.  She  was  stout,  wearing  a  close- 
fitting  blouse  of  some  black  material  closely  covered 
with  white  spots  which  long  had  lost  their  whiteness. 
There  was  the  unmistakable  lodging-house  look  about 
her  which  is  quite  different  in  London  to  any  other 
place  in  England.  In  a  moment  she  had  taken  me 
in.  Quite  wrongly,  perhaps,  but  to  her  own  satis- 
faction. My  coat  and  hat  she  had  priced  before  I 
had  had  time  to  open  my  mouth.  They  were  priced 
by  her  standard,  which  I  have  no  doubt  was  the  pawn- 
shop, and  probably  from  that  point  she  was  right  to 


234  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

within  a  penny.  There  was  that  look  in  her,  too,  of 
suspicion.  I  felt  it  in  the  very  way  she  opened  the 
door.  There  had  been  the  sense  of  expectation  with- 
out greeting,  and  for  one  instant  that  expression  of 
doubt  as  if  she  were  not  quite  sure  whether  I  were  the 
person  she  expected  to  see.  Directly  I  saw  her,  I 
knew  my  search  there  was  hopeless. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Fennell  live  here?  "  I  inquired. 

She  shook  her  head,  still  appraising  me  with  her 
eyes. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  she  left?  " 

"  She  never  lived  here." 

There  seemed  to  be  a  certain  cautiousness  in  this, 
so  I  persisted  with  my  questions. 

"  But  Mr.  Fennell  lived  here?  "  said  I. 

"Yes  — he  did." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  he  left?  " 

"  May  I  arsk  why  yer  want  ter  know?  "she  inquired. 

"  I  have  private  reasons,"  I  replied. 

Her  eyes  took  a  sudden  smallness  into  them.  I 
can  explain  the  expression  in  no  other  way. 

"  Does  he  owe  you  money?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"  He  does  me." 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  I. 

"  'Cos  you  think  I  won't  get  it  —  eh?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that." 

"  Well  —  I  don't  think  I  will.  I  Ve  got  a  boy  of 
mine  what 's  in  a  solicitor's  office  to  write  him  a 
letter,  but  he  don't  take  no  notice  of  it." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  235 

"Where  did  you  send  it  to?"  I  asked,  without 
any  of  the  eagerness  that  I  felt  so  strongly  mine. 

"  To  a  club  where  he  stays  sometimes." 

"  What 's  the  name  of  it?  " 

''The  Lyric.     Who  told  you  he  was  married?" 

I  replied  that  I  had  heard  so. 

"God  help  the  girl,"  she  muttered;  whereupon 
apologizing  for  the  trouble  I  had  given  her  I  walked 
away.  The  name  of  God  in  her  throat,  and  applied 
in  such  a  case,  sickened  me.  Directly  I  saw  a  taxi  I 
hailed  it.  Dandy  and  I  jumped  in. 

"  The  Lyric  Club,"  said  I. 

It  was  just  the  club  to  which  I  should  have  ex- 
pected him  to  belong.  I  had  often  heard  of  its  mem- 
bers and  their  habits.  They  were  a  dissolute  lot, 
composed  of  those  impecunious  young  men  who  man- 
age to  subsist  in  some  marvellous  way  upon  their 
debts,  maintaining  an  appearance  of  affluence  by 
superficiality  of  manner  and  a  certain  smart  way  of 
dressing  themselves,  which  will  continue  to  deceive 
tradesmen  as  long  as  the  world  goes  round.  Their 
main  object  in  life  is  to  obtain  money,  and  that  with- 
out working  for  it.  Wherefore  they  have  a  thousand 
little  irons  in  the  fire.  Here  they  know  some  young 
man  who  has  written  a  play;  there  they  know  some 
young  man  with  money  who  is  fool  enough  to  put 
it  on,  and  between  the  two  they  manage  to  derive 
some  pecuniary  benefit  out  of  other  people's  brains 
which  enables  them  to  make  their  way,  backing  horses 
and  playing  cards  for  the  next  month  or  so. 


236  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Young  Fennell  must  have  been  clearly  eligible  for 
such  membership.  I  could  have  conceived  no  more 
fitting  reputation  for  him  than  to  say  that  he  belonged 
to  the  Lyric  Club. 

The  hall-porter  was  almost  asleep  when  I  entered. 
To  my  inquiries  as  to  whether  Mr.  Fennell  were  in 
the  club,  he  slowly  opened  his  eyes  and  beckoned  to 
a  page-boy. 

"  Is  Mr.  Fennell  in  the  club?"  he  asked. 

11  No,  sir." 

"  Has  he  been  in  lately?  "  I  inquired. 

The  hall-porter  shook  his  head. 

"  Has  he  been  in  lately?  "  I  inquired. 

44 1  said  no,  did  n't  I?" 

"  You  wagged  your  head,"  said  I.  "  I  thought 
you  might  be  going  to  sleep  again." 

"  If  you  had  to  keep  the  hours  I  do,  sir — "  he 
began. 

I  begged  his  pardon.  I  imagine  it  is  no  easy  job 
to  be  hall-porter  at  that  club. 

"  When  did  he  come  in  last?  " 

He  repeated  my  question  to  the  page-boy,  who  in- 
formed him  that  it  was  about  five  days  before. 
Then  the  hall-porter  looked  at  me  as  though  to  say, 
"  You  heard  what  he  said?  " 

I  had  heard  and  I  left  the  club.  There  was  now 
left  my  last  hope  of  finding  her.  With  a  bitter  feel- 
ing of  despair  weighing  heavily  on  me  I  got  back 
into  the  taxi,  giving  the  address  in  Phillimore  Gar- 
dens, where  Mrs.  Farringdon  lived. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  237 

It  was  no  time  in  the  morning,  I  know,  to  be  pay- 
ing calls.  But  what  man  in  such  a  case  considers 
that?  The  fever  of  pursuing  my  mission  to  its  ulti- 
mate end  was  a  furnace  burning  in  me.  I  could  no 
more  have  waited  the  few  hours  that  would  have 
given  the  odor  of  etiquette  to  my  visit,  than  I  could 
have  flown  to  Phillimore  Gardens.  It  had  come  to 
be  in  my  mind  that  I  must  know  then  and  at  once. 
All  contemplation  of  delay  was  impossible.  As  we 
drove  out  to  Kensington,  Dandy  jumped  upon  the 
seat  beside  me  and,  pushing  up  closely  to  my  side 
pressed  his  nose  against  my  arm.  His  brown  eyes 
as  they  looked  up  at  me  were  full  of  questions. 

'  What  are  we  doing  this  for? "  he  asked. 
'Why  are  we  tearing  about  in  motors?  Is  any- 
thing the  matter?  " 

'  We  're  trying  to  find  somebody,"  said  I. 
"Somebody  who  —  oh  —  what's  it  matter?" 

"  But  why  do  we  want  to  find  her  so  much,"  he 
insisted,  "  if  it  does  n't  matter?  " 

At  that,  suddenly,  I  realized  something.  I  be- 
came aware  of  the  fact  that  the  questions  I  found 
in  Dandy's  eyes  were  only  an  expression  of  the 
thoughts  harboring  in  my  own  mind.  It  was  not 
he  who  asked  them;  it  was  I  who  asked  myself. 
In  that  curly  black  head  of  his  were  probably  no 
other  ideas  than  memories  of  battles  long  past,  of 
moments  of  the  chase  when  he  was  bounding  over 
the  heather  on  those  cliffs  in  Ireland.  Or  maybe  it 
was  only  the  affection  of  a  dog  for  the  man  who 


238  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

treats  him  well.  But  all  that  searching  interroga- 
tion was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  what  I  wanted 
to  know  myself. 

It  was  I  who  asked  myself  why  we  should  need 
so  much  to  find  her.  Therefore,  when  I  came  upon 
this  startling  discovery,  it  brought  me  to  the  under- 
standing of  what  I  had  not  dared  permit  myself  to 
realize  before.  I  needed  so  much  to  find  her  because 
I  needed  her  so  much  myself.  I,  who  had  talked  so 
easily  about  the  folly  of  plunging  myself  in  love, 
was  by  now  bitterly  its  slave.  And  so,  as  I  came  to 
review  the  events  of  the  past  months,  I  was  made 
conscious  that  Bellwattle  had  spoken  the  truth  from 
the  very  first.  Indeed,  I  had  known  nothing  of  it 
till  now.  For  when  you  begin  by  falling  in  love  with 
a  gown  of  canary-colored  satin,  it  takes  you  some 
time  before  you  come  to  be  aware  of  it.  And  noth- 
ing less  than  this  was  what  happened  to  me.  The 
loneliness  of  that  child  in  Ireland  had  drawn  me 
to  her.  And  now  that  I  had  seen  her,  even  only 
those  two  times,  I  felt  in  the  deepest  heart  of  me 
that  I  was  the  man  to  make  her  happy. 

This  is  the  true  conceit  of  love  I  suppose,  that  I 
who  am  so  disfigured  should  for  one  moment  im- 
agine such  a  thing.  As  I  looked  at  myself  in  the 
mirror  which  the  taxi  provided,  I,  too,  was  amazed 
that  such  a  thought  could  enter  my  head.  But  it 
was  the  truth.  There  was  no  getting  away  from  it, 
and  as  such  it  must  be  suffered  with  what  courage 
I  could  muster  to  bear  it. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  239 

If  only  I  could  find  her  and  hear  from  her  own 
lips  that  she  was  happy,  I  knew  that  I  should  be  con- 
tent. Married  or  unmarried,  surely  it  made  but 
little  difference  to  me.  She  had  prayed  God  she 
would  never  see  me  again.  If  once  I  might  hear 
from  her  that  she  had  found  her  place  again 
in  the  sun,  then,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  her 
prayer  should  be  answered,  I  would  never  see  her 
again. 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  number  in  Philli- 
more  Gardens.  The  taxi  pulled  up  when,  telling 
Dandy  to  stay  there  quietly  till  I  returned,  I  hurried 
up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Is  Mrs.  Farringdon  in?"  I  inquired  of  the 
maid. 

She  said  she  was,  whereupon,  having  taken  my 
card,  I  was  shown  into  just  such  a  drawing-room  as 
I  should  have  imagined  the  Miss  Fennells  furnish- 
ing, with  taste  acquired  by  a  visit  to  London.  I 
had  begun  counting  the  cushions  and  photographs 
when  the  good  lady  came  in.  She  is  Miss  Teresa 
over  again,  with  just  that  difference  of  expression 
which  marriage  makes  to  the  confidence  in  a 
woman's  eyes.  For  if  you  are  a  woman,  I  believe, 
and  reach  the  age  which  poor  Miss  Teresa  has 
attained,  there  comes  into  your  eyes,  whether  you 
will  it  or  not,  the  look  of  watching  for  some  phan- 
tom thing  which  never  rides  the  seas  upon  your 
actual  horizon.  You  know  it  is  there,  because  you 
hope  it  is  there.  Maybe  it  is  the  disappointed  spirit 


240  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

of  maternity  which  has  waited  so  long  upon  the 
road  that  its  eyes  are  tired  of  watching. 

With  just  the  look  of  confidence  in  place  of  this 
Mrs.  Farringdon  was  a  repetition  of  Miss  Teresa. 
She  bowed  to  me  stiffly  as  she  came  into  the  room, 
half  closing  the  door  with  that  unconscious  sense  of 
self-protection  which  is  natural  to  the  less  prepos- 
sessing of  her  sex. 

"  Mr.  Bellairs?  "  said  she,  and  she  referred  in  the 
proper  way  to  my  card,  which  she  held  scrupulously 
in  her  fingers. 

"  I  met  your  sisters  in  Ireland,"  said  I,  without 
delay.  "  I  was  staying  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Town- 
shend  at  Ballysheen.  I  met  there  also  a  Miss 
Fawdry,  who  was  living  with  your  sisters.  I  must 
apologize  for  calling  on  you  at  this  time  in  the  morn- 
ing; but  I  want  to  know  where  she  is  to  be  found. 
She  was  married  from  your  house,  I  believe." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  there  shaking  her  head 
backwards  and  forwards,  as  though  I  had  come  to 
the  wrong  house  altogether;  as  though  she  was  not 
Mrs.  Farringdon,  and  had  never  heard  of  Miss 
Fawdry  in  her  life  before. 

"  Miss  Fawdry  has  gone  back  to  the  West  In- 
dies," said  she. 

"Gone  back!"  I  exclaimed.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment I  could  not  know  whether  I  was  glad  or 
sorry.  '*  Gone  back,"  I  repeated.  "  When?  Why? 
Wasn't  she  married  here  from  your  house?" 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  241 

"  But  your  nephew  left  Ballysheen  with  her  to 
marry  her  here  in  London." 

"  My  nephew  does  many  peculiar  things,"  she  re- 
plied, tartly,  "  that  do  not  come  to  my  hearing.  In- 
deed, I  did  hear  about  this.  My  sisters  told  me  that 
he  was  bringing  her  over.  But  when  he  came  to  see 
me,  he  told  me  that  they  had  decided  not  to  be 
married,  and  that  Miss  Fawdry  had  gone  back  to  — 
Dominica,  I  think  it  was." 

'  Your  nephew 's  a  —  rascal,"  I  exclaimed. 
''Where  does  he  live?  I'll  horsewhip  him  within 
an  inch  of  his  life." 

She  became  so  nervous  then  at  my  sudden  burst  of 
anger  that  she  retired  quickly  to  the  door  and  called 
for  Fred. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I.  "  I  have  no  right, 
I  know,  to  come  as  a  stranger  to  your  house  and  tell 
you  what  perhaps  you  already  know  about  your 
nephew.  I  'm  sorry." 

But  she  took  no  notice.  She  stood  there  at  the 
door,  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  Fred,  who  was  no 
other  than  Mr.  Farringdon  himself.  To  him  she 
hurriedly  explained  everything.  He  was  a  meek 
little  man,  and  he  listened  to  it  all  with  a  wary  eye 
upon  me. 

;' What 's  this  mean,  sir?"  said  he,  and  his  voice 
was  brave  and  his  attitude  was  great. 

"  I  have  already  explained,"  said  I.  "  More- 
over I  have  apologized,  too.  I  understand  that  your 
nephew  has  not  married  Miss  Fawdry." 


242  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"Yes  —  yes  —  that  is  so,"  he  replied. 

"  Now  can  you  tell  me  where  he  lives?  " 

"  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  can't.  He  lets  me 
know  nothing  about  his  movements  except  when  he 
is  in  need  of  money.  As  that  apparently  has  not 
been  the  case  for  some  time,  we  have  not  heard  of 
him  for  the  past  six  months.  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  tell 
you  where  he  lives." 

"  But,  my  dear,  he  says  he  'd  horsewhip  him  if  he 
knew,"  said  Mrs.  Farringdon,  in  consternation. 

"  That 's  why  I  'm  sorry,"  said  the  little  man. 

With  a  sudden  instinct  I  held  out  my  hand.  He 
shook  it  warmly,  and  there  I  left  him  to  such  mercy 
as  his  wife  should  feel  inclined  to  offer  him.  From 
the  glance  in  her  eyes  I  doubt  if  there  were  a  great 
deal  of  it. 

Dandy's  face  was  peering  round  the  corner  of  the 
taxi  door  as  I  came  out.  I  told  the  man  to  drive 
home.  Then  I  got  inside,  closed  the  door  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"Well?"  he  asked.  "Well  — did  you  find 
her?" 

I  shook  my  head  at  him. 

"  She  's  gone,"  said  I.  "  We  shall  never  see  her 
again.  They  've  answered  that  prayer  of  hers. 
She  said  she  'd  ask  God." 

"Well?"  said  Dandy. 

"  That 's  all,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  first  snowdrop  blossomed  in  my  window- 
boxes  this  morning.  Its  small,  white  face  looked  so 
timid  as  it  stared  at  me  out  of  the  fog.  I  felt  almost 
sorry  for  its  loneliness,  only  that  I  admired  it  so 
much  for  its  bravery.  It  must  need  some  courage 
to  be  the  first  flower  of  the  year — a  pioneer  into 
unknown  kingdoms.  I  know  so  many  people  who 
would  sooner  lie  abed  than  be  the  first  to  get  up  on 
such  a  morning  as  this. 

I  found  it  for  myself,  but  knew  well  I  was  not 
the  first  to  discover  it.  Moxon  was  waiting  about 
in  the  room  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  doing 
nothing  in  that  feverishly-occupied  way  which  be- 
tokens subterfuge  of  some  kind  or  another.  I  could 
see  quite  plainly  what  he  was  up  to  and,  in  such  cases 
as  these,  I  hate  to  disappoint  people.  He  wanted 
me  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  snowdrop,  since,  for 
his  dignity's  sake,  he  could  not  be  supposed  to  have 
seen  it  himself.  Now,  to  have  taken  no  notice  of  it 
would  have  been  cruel,  yet  I  was  sorely  tempted  to 
it.  I  wanted  to  observe  to  what  straits  of  ingenuity 
he  would  be  put  before  dire  necessity  compelled  him 
to  leave  the  room. 


244  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

In  such  a  pass  as  this  I  meet  the  devil  of  tempta- 
tion half  way.  I  succumb  to  him  so  far  as  to  see  the 
little  play  performed  almost  to  the  fall  of  the  cur- 
tain then,  in  the  nick  of  time,  I  surrender  my  advan- 
tage to  spite  the  devil  and  please  myself. 

Moxon  had  placed  a  vase  of  daffodils  in  five  dif- 
ferent positions  about  the  room  and,  compelled  at 
last  to  be  satisfied  with  them,  he  was  about  to  leave 
me  to  myself.  At  that  moment  I  strolled  casually 
to  the  window  and,  at  the  very  door,  he  paused. 

"  Oh,  here 's  our  first  snowdrop  in  blossom," 
said  I. 

I  think  he  liked  my  calling  it  "  ours."  A  big  smile 
spread  across  his  face,  and  he  came  over  to  my  side 
with  such  speed  as  he  might,  consistent  with  a  proper 
respect  for  my  confidence. 

"  Wonderful  where  they  get  the  white  from  out  of 
that  dirty  mould,"  said  he.  From  the  ready  way  he 
announced  it,  I  felt  sure  that  he  had  had  that  sen- 
tence in  his  mind  all  the  time,  that  he  had  thought 
it  would  please  me  to  know  he  did  think  of  such 
things.  He  had  probably  been  harboring  it  in  his 
head  since  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Whether 
that  is  so  or  not,  it  did  please  me.  It  is  just  the  thing 
I  always  marvel  at  myself. 

"  But  don't  call  it  dirty  mould,"  said  I.  "  There  's 
hardly  a  thing  I  know  so  clean  as  a  ploughed  field  in 
spring,  when  the  earth  has  just  been  turned  after  a 
long  winter." 

No  doubt  it  was  I  who  was  considering  my  dig- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  245 

nity  now.  No  matter  how  right  a  schoolboy  may  be 
in  his  answer,  the  master  always  corrects  him,  sets 
him  right  in  a  phrase  or  some  insignificant  fact.  I 
was  doing  much  the  same  with  Moxon.  All  these 
little  tricks  are  the  efforts  of  the  superior  human 
being  for  the  maintenance  of  dignity.  I  know  a  man 
who  every  evening  of  his  life  partakes  of  a  glass 
of  milk  for  his  health's  sake.  One  night  his  dog 
fell  foul  of  it  and  consumed  it  all.  But  it  was  not 
for  punishment  alone  that  he  stole  two  of  the  dog's 
biscuits  in  return.  What  can  be  more  undignified 
than  having  your  evening's  milk  stolen  by  your  dog! 
What,  then,  can  more  perfectly  regain  your  dignity 
than  stealing  two  of  his  biscuits  and  calling  it  the 
adjustment  of  punishment  to  the  crime?  If  Moxon 
could  not  openly  admit  that  he  had  seen  the  snow- 
drop before,  I  could  not  entirely  agree  with  him.  It 
cut  both  ways. 

"  Of  course,  I  did  n't  mean  dirty  in  that  sense, 
sir,"  he  replied.  "  Only  that  it  makes  my  hands 
what  I  should  call  not  quite  clean." 

'  When  you  tidy  up,  you  mean?  "  said  I. 

"Well"  —  I  had  caught  him  in  that  trap  — 
"yes,  sir  —  when  I  —  tidy  up." 

This  all  sounds  very  ridiculous,  I  admit.  Two 
men  wrangling  about  the  bloom  of  a  snowdrop  do 
not  present  an  object  for  much  respect!  But  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  just  of  such  incidents 
as  these  that  life  is  composed,  with  here  and  there 
some  real  event  falling  heavily  into  the  peaceful  rip- 


246  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

pling  of  the  stream.  It  may  fall  upon  a  gravel  bot- 
tom, when  the  broken  water  catches  in  a  thousand 
points  of  light  the  glorious  reflection  of  the  sun.  It 
may  fall  where  there  is  sleeping  mud  which,  dis- 
turbed, sullies  all  the  clearness  of  the  stream.  Then 
only  Time,  who  not  alone  heals  but  cleanses,  shall 
sweep  the  ugliness  of  it  away. 

Men  and  women  are  just  as  human  whether  it  be 
over  a  field  of  snowdrops  or  a  field  of  turnips.  I 
would  sooner  it  were  snowdrops  myself.  For  this 
is  life  as  it  seems  to  me  —  a  crowd  of  undignified 
little  creatures,  pathetically,  humorously,  in  all  love- 
ableness,  trying  to  assume  a  dignity  which  they  do 
not  possess;  only  in  great  moments  proving  the 
nobility  of  their  creation,  when,  by  the  sudden  force 
of  circumstance,  they  are,  willy-nilly,  driven  to  be 
themselves. 

I  little  imagined  as  I  amused  myself  by  these 
thoughts  with  Moxon  standing  by,  staring  down  with 
me  at  the  timid  blossom  of  that  little  snowdrop,  that 
I  for  one  was  upon  the  eve  of  such  an  event  as  would 
force  me  by  its  circumstance  to  some  definite  course 
of  action.  Yet  that  very  night  I  came  to  know  of 
Clarissa  —  know  of  her  in  such  a  way  as  I  had 
rather  hear  of  any  misfortune  beside. 

Ever  since  that  day  when  I  had  heard  from  Mrs. 
Farringdon  that  she  had  returned  unmarried  to 
Dominica,  I  had  striven  with  my  conscience  to  know 
whether  I  were  glad  or  not. 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again,"  said  I. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  247 

"  She  's  found  the  happiness  you  urged  her  to," 
replied  my  conscience. 

"  Did  I  really  urge  her  to  that?  "  I  asked. 

So  much  of  a  head  as  my  conscience  possesses,  it 
nodded,  and  nodded  vigorously. 

"  But  did  I  mean  it?  "  said  I. 

This  is  the  only  way  with  one's  conscience,  to 
silence  it.  Drive  it  into  a  corner  of  perplexity,  when 
even  truthfulness  can  be  of  no  avail. 

"  Did  I  mean  it?  "  I  repeated,  and  my  conscience 
could  say  nothing.  "  In  the  back  of  my  mind,"  I 
continued,  pressing  my  advantage  to  its  uttermost, 
"  was  there  not  some  hope  that  I  might  win  her  for 
myself?  Why  should  I  be  glad  then  that  she  had 
gone?" 

And  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  I  neither  knew 
whether  I  was  glad  or  sorry.  For  this  is  the  selfish- 
ness of  that  great  unselfishness  of  love,  that  we  will 
give  the  whole  world,  our  life  if  necessary,  to  the 
woman  whom  we  worship,  but  the  giving  must  be 
ours. 

Yet  that  night  I  knew  well  enough  whether  I  were 
glad  or  not,  for  that  night,  trying  in  vain  to  find  the 
waters  of  forgetfulness  in  the  finger-bowls  on  my 
supper-room  table,  I  saw  Clarissa  herself. 

It  was  all  a  lie !  She  had  never  returned  to  Do- 
minica; and  as  I  pieced  together  the  story  from  what 
I  had  been  told,  from  what  I  saw  before  me  then,  I 
grew  sick  at  heart  with  a  nameless  apprehension. 

Young  Fennell  was  with  her;   there  was  also  an- 


248  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

other  man  —  a  member  no  doubt  of  the  Lyric  Club 
—  and  the  same  woman  to  whom  the  story  of  Cla- 
rissa had  been  told  that  night  almost  a  year  before, 
when  first  there  had  been  sown  in  my  mind  the  seed 
of  my  adventure. 

For  some  long  minutes  I  was  too  amazed  to  do 
anything  but  watch  them  unperceived.  Two  bottles 
of  champagne  stood  on  the  table,  and  one  by  one  the 
five  courses  of  the  supper  were  placed  before  them. 
They  all  ate  and  drank  as  though  it  were  the  one 
essential  meal  of  their  day — all  of  them  except 
Clarissa,  who  nibbled  at  her  bread  like  a  little 
mouse,  only  sipping  from  her  glass  lest  they  should 
fill  it  up  again  too  soon.  But  in  the  laughing  and 
the  talking  she  was  no  exception  to  the  rest.  To 
all  the  popular  tunes  of  the  day  they  rapped  with 
their  forks  in  applause  upon  the  table.  It  was 
just  that  type  of  partie  carree  I  had  seen  so  often 
in  those  rooms;  so  often  wondered  at  for  the 
hollowness  of  the  enjoyment  it  suggested.  They 
would  —  had  I  not  known  them  —  have  been  just 
such  a  company  of  players  as  I  am  accustomed  to 
watch  in  this  one  particular  theatre  of  mine.  But, 
being  Clarissa,  it  was  no  play  to  me  then.  Every 
time  she  laughed,  I  felt  it  buffet  in  my  face.  Every 
time  when  with  the  others  she  tapped  her  fork 
upon  the  table,  she  might  have  been  driving  the 
prongs  of  it  into  my  flesh.  That  she  could  find 
laughter  with  such  men  and  women !  That  she  could 
applaud  that  loathsome  music,  which  only  sensual- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  249 

izes  the  minds  of  those  that  hear  it!  All  these 
thoughts  burnt  hot  inside  me,  and  yet  I  could  do  no 
more  than  stay  and  watch  it  to  the  end. 

There  was,  moreover,  in  my  mind  the  determina- 
tion that  I  still  had  some  questions  to  ask  that  young 
man  before  I  let  him  out  of  my  sight  again.  With 
that  intention,  therefore,  I  sat  quietly  in  my  seat.  I 
had  settled  with  myself  that  I  would  speak  to  him 
when  they  were  all  going*  out  —  contrive  that  he 
should  remain  behind,  since,  if  there  should  be  words 
between  us,  as  was  most  likely,  it  should  not  in  any 
way  disgrace  Clarissa. 

In  the  first  few  moments  I  had  thought  it  strange 
for  it  to  be  here  that  I  should  meet  Clarissa  again. 
But  there  was  not  so  much  strangeness  in  it  after  all. 
A  man  always  returns  to  his  old  haunts.  It  is  the 
instinct  of  the  animal  for  its  lair,  the  salmon  for  its 
pool.  But  though  he  had  seen  me  there  before,  he 
little  expected  to  see  me  there  again. 

It  was  with  no  little  satisfaction  that  I  noted  his 
first  glance  of  recognition  and  the  look  of  conster- 
nation that  followed  it.  He  waited  just  a  moment, 
thinking,  doubtless,  to  hide  from  me  the  fact  that 
he  had  seen  me;  then,  leaning  across  the  table,  he 
whispered  something  into  Clarissa's  ear.  With  that 
same  startled  expression  of  the  frightened  bird,  she 
looked  across  the  room  and  her  eyes  met  mine. 

In  that  one  sudden  moment,  I  felt  she  was  recall- 
ing every  word  I  had  said  to  her  that  morning  on  the 
cliffs  at  Ballysheen.  For  her  eyes  had  no  hatred  in 


250  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

them  now;  only  fear,  the  fear  as  when  one  is  dis- 
covered and  is  ashamed.  She  tried  to  meet  my  look, 
and  though  in  my  eyes  I  felt  there  was  showing  all 
the  affection  I  had  so  lately  come  to  realize,  yet  still 
she  failed.  In  a  moment  she  was  looking  away 
again,  forcing  herself  to  talk  to  the  man  beside  her 
as  if  the  incident  had  passed  completely  from  her 
mind. 

Presently  young  Fennell  leaned  across  the  table 
and  spoke  to  her  once  more,  then  rose  and  came 
down  the  room. 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  him  now?  "  I  thought.  Later 
I  wished  to  God  I  had,  for  he  passed  out  of  the  room 
and,  as  the  time  went  by,  I  realized  that  he  was  not 
coming  back  again.  To  make  sure  I  went  to  the 
cloak-room  in  the  vestibule.  They  told  me  he  had 
gone. 

"  Damnation  I  "  I  exclaimed.  The  liveried  at- 
tendants stood  there  with  meaningless  faces,  power- 
less to  help  me.  I  was  powerless  to  help  myself. 

For  a  while  I  remained  there  undecided,  staring 
at  the  door  through  which  he  must  have  passed.  He 
had  escaped  me.  It  roused  a  thousand  suspicions 
in  my  mind.  He  feared  our  meeting.  But  why? 
What  had  happened?  I  felt  sick  with  the  multitude 
of  suggestions  that  came  pouring  into  my  brain. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done  —  to  speak 
with  Clarissa.  Once  having  brought  my  determina- 
tion to  that,  I  went  back  to  my  table  and  called  a 
waiter. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  251 

"  Give  me,"  said  I,  "  a  piece  of  paper  and  a 
pencil." 

He  brought  them  to  me,  standing  by  me  at  my 
direction  while  I  wrote.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Fennell"  I 
scribbled  —  my  hands  were  shaking  foolishly  — 
"  may  I  have  five  minutes'  conversation  with  you  if 
you  can  spare  them  after  supper?  I  shall  not  offend 
you  again  as  I  did  before" 

"  Take  this,"  said  I,  "  to  the  lady  at  that  table, 
the  lady  with  the  dark  hair,  and  ask  for  an  answer. 
Say  that  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  her  while  she  is 
with  friends." 

"  I  'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  but  we  are  not 
allowed  to  deliver  notes." 

"  That  be  damned  for  a  tale!  "  said  I.  "  What 
the  devil  do  you  mean?  Do  you  want  to  suggest  that 
I  'm  trying  to  force  my  acquaintance  on  a  lady  whom 
I  don't  know?" 

"  I  'm  sorry,  sir  —  but  those  are  our  orders. 
There  's  been  some  unpleasantness  on  two  or  three 
occasions." 

I  told  him  to  send  me  the  head-waiter.  The 
mditre  d'hotel  came,  rubbing  his  hands.  These  for- 
eigners with  their  genial  faces  and  silky  ways!  I 
always  see  such  contempt  in  their  cunning  little  eyes. 

*  You  Ve  seen  me  here  pretty  often,"  I  began. 

He  laved  his  hands  more  obsequiously  than  ever 
as  he  bowed  assent. 

'  Well  —  there  's  a  lady  over  there  at  that  table. 
She  is  a  friend  of  mine.  I  don't  know  the  people  with 


252  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

whom  she  is  supping  and,  therefore,  don't  wish  to 
disturb  their  party.  Kindly  take  this  note  over  to 
her.  If  you  don't  deliver  it  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  do  so  myself." 

He  took  the  note  without  a  word. 

For  the  first  few  moments  while  he  was  gone,  I 
could  not  look  in  that  direction.  Now  I  suppose  I 
know  the  madness  which  comes  to  those  who  love. 
It  is  madness.  It  is  nothing  less.  In  that  short  space 
I  might  have  been  another  being,  so  overwhelming 
was  the  rush  of  emotions  that  trampled  through  me. 
In  as  many  seconds  I  was  prompted  to  the  doing  of  a 
hundred  different  things;  yet  I  sat  there  quietly, 
scarcely  moving,  until  I  raised  my  eyes  and  saw 
Clarissa  with  nervous  fingers  opening  my  note.  The 
other  woman  was  looking  round  in  my  direction  with 
curious  eyes,  in  which  I  could  trace  that  half-puzzled 
look  of  recognition.  But  not  once  did  Clarissa  turn 
her  eyes  towards  me.  Even  when  she  had  finished 
reading  it,  she  kept  her  face  averted;  then,  giving 
some  message  to  the  head-waiter,  she  turned  to  the 
man  on  her  right  and  began  to  speak  as  though  it 
were  in  some  hurried  explanation.  Again  the  woman 
stared  at  me.  The  man  stared,  too.  Only  Clarissa 
kept  her  face  away.  I  saw  her  little  fingers  fever- 
ishly making  countless  pellets  with  her  bread. 

The  next  moment  the  maitre  d'hotel  was  bending 
down  with  smooth  apologies  and  speaking  in  my  ear. 
'The  lady  is  very  sorry,  sir  —  but  she  is  afraid 
there  must  be  some  mistake." 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  253 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked  quickly;  but  all 
the  time  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  Clarissa.  "  What  do 
you  mean?  "  I  repeated. 

"  The  lady  is  very  sorry,  sir,"  he  said  again,  "  but 
she  's  afraid  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

A  multitude  of  things  came  to  my  mind  to  be  said, 
but  not  one  of  them  passed  my  lips.  With  such  pre- 
cision as  I  thought  could  scarcely  be  in  my  nature,  I 
took  my  note  which  he  had  brought  back  with  him, 
tearing  it  slowly  and  evenly  into  a  hundred  little 
pieces,  and  laid  them  in  a  pile  upon  my  table. 

"  My  bill,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER  M 

A  SPARROW  came  and  sat  upon  one  of  my  window- 
boxes  as  I  was  at  breakfast  this  morning,  chirping 
loudly  for  some  reason  or  other  as  though  it  were 
summer  instead  of  one  of  those  very  early  days  of 
spring  which  seem  to  have  dropped  by  accident  from 
the  lap  of  a  generous  Providence. 

Possibly  it  was  the  bright  yellow  of  the  crocuses, 
now  in  bloom,  which  attracted  him.  A  day  when  his 
ancestors  lived  in  trees  instead  of  upon  sooty  house- 
tops was  no  doubt  dimly  stirring  in  his  semi-conscious- 
ness. He  almost  persuaded  me  that  his  chirping  was 
a  song,  so  much  lusty  energy  did  he  throw  into  it. 
It  was  only  when  I  came  to  listen  carefully  that  I 
realized  there  were  but  two  notes  to  his  compass. 
Truly  he  made  the  most  of  them.  Doubtless  it  was 
a  lesson  to  me  to  make  the  most  of  such  shallow  com- 
pass as  is  mine.  If  it  were,  I  did  not  learn  of  it.  My 
mind  had  been  made  up  for  some  time  now  and,  as 
soon  as  Moxon  had  cleared  away,  I  sat  down  at  my 
desk  and  wrote  a  letter: 

My  dear  Bellwattle,  —  I  want  to  make  you  a  fitting 
present  in  gratitude  for  my  visit  to  Ballysheen. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  255 

Don't  attempt  to  ask  me  why  I  have  left  it  so  long 
as  this,  contenting  myself  with  the  mere  letter  of 
thanks  such  as  one  writes  to  any  hostess.  For  you 
were  not  any  hostess  and  therefore  have  every  justi- 
fication for  asking  why,  until  now,  I  have  treated 
you  so  differently.  Believe  me,  I  did  not  think  of 
you  when  I  wrote  as  of  any  guest  to  any  hostess, 
nor  of  Cruikshank  as  to  any  host.  I  have  never  for- 
gotten one  moment  on  those  cliffs  or  in  that  garden, 
for  it  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  that  in 
those  few  short  weeks,  you  made  me  familiar  with 
a  wonderful  attitude  towards  life  which  I  would  give 
a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  adopt  myself.  However, 
that,  as  you  know,  is  impossible,  needing  as  it  does 
such  addition  to  the  personal  equation  as  can  never 
enter  into  the  sum  of  my  experience. 

What  attitude  is  available  to  me  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  confess  myself  absolutely  unable  to 
determine.  I  am  one  of  those  unfortunate  individ- 
uals who,  even  in  the  midst  of  such  lively  surround- 
ings as  these,  are  of  a  solitary  nature,  yet  loathe 
nothing  so  much  as  their  own  company.  The  little 
bones  which  I  have  had  to  pick  with  Providence  are 
so  dry  by  this  —  you  do  not  know  it,  but  I  am  forty- 
four  —  that  to  sit  alone  and  worry  at  them  now 
would  be  beyond  human  endurance.  Occasionally  in 
bed  in  the  early  morning  or  at  night  when  I  am  left 
alone  and  my  man  Moxon  has  retired,  I  find  myself 
speculating  upon  what  niche  in  God's  gallery  of 
human  beings  I  have  been  meant  to  fill.  So  far  as  I 


256  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

can  see  there  is  not  one.  And  then,  in  accordance 
with  all  human  nature,  I  try  to  shift  the  blame  upon 
some  shoulders  other  than  my  own.  Circumstance, 
that  my  mother  should  have  died  when  she  did  — 
my  father,  that  he  has  never  brought  me  up  to  any 
profession  —  then  last  of  all,  inevitably  myself,  that 
I  have  taken  advantage  of  the  allowance  he  is  mak- 
ing me,  spending  my  money  upon  easy  travelling  all 
over  the  world  which  is  an  education  in  its  way,  but 
fits  no  man  for  the  real  exigencies  of  life.  He  could 
learn  more  in  a  cobbler's  shop  in  the  Mile  End 
Road.  There  is  as  much  wisdom  as  cure  in  the 
washing  in  Jordan.  The  thing  to  one's  hand  is  no 
doubt  the  thing  for  one's  grasp. 

This  is  mere  preliminary,  just  to  show  you  that  I 
shall  never  come  into  occupation  of  Cruikshank's 
little  cottage  in  the  hollow.  Imagine  Providence 
and  myself  sitting  there  alone  of  the  long  winter 
nights  with  a  few  dry  bones  upon  the  table  between 
us !  I  could  not  bear  such  company  as  that.  No  — 
if  I  am  to  cut  a  niche  for  myself  anywhere,  it  must 
be  in  that  room  in  God's  gallery,  where,  as  I  heard 
a  man  say  the  other  day,  you  will  find  the  hoi  polloi. 
I  will  give  you  the  whole  of  his  sentence,  for  Cruik- 
shank's benefit  if  not  for  yours.  He  was  describing 
the  disadvantages  of  a  new  club. 

'*  What  I  'm  afraid  will  happen,"  he  said,  "  is 
this.  You  '11  get  all  the  hoi  polloi  there.  There  '11 
be  nothing  recherche  about  it  at  all.  Plebeian  — 
that 's  what  it  '11  be  and,  if  there  's  one  thing  I  hate 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  257 

more  than  another  it  is  that  jarring  sound  of  the 
vox  populi" 

Show  this  to  Cruikshank  and  he  will  explain  why 
he  is  amused.  This  man  had  evidently  travelled  for 
his  education. 

I  hope  this  letter  is  not  too  egotistical,  a  hope 
based  doubtless  upon  the  fact  that  I  know  it  is. 
And  in  a  sense,  I  mean  it  to  be.  I  entertain  a  foolish 
desire  that  you  should  appreciate  my  point  of  view, 
so  that  if  at  any  time  you  might  hear  news  of  me  of 
one  sort  or  another  you  would  be  able  to  apply  this 
confession  as  a  key  to  the  understanding  of  what 
you  had  heard. 

And  now,  after  all  this  preamble,  I  come  to  the 
real  reason  of  my  letter,  the  statement  with  which 
I  began.  I  want  you  to  accept  a  gift  in  token  of  my 
gratitude  for  all  your  kindness  to  me  in  Ballysheen. 
I  want  you  to  take  care  of  Dandy  as  your  own. 

Since  those  few  weeks  in  Ireland,  I  have  fancied 
that  he  has  missed  the  country  most  terribly,  the 
walks  upon  those  glorious  cliffs  he  had  with  you,  the 
rambles  with  both  of  us  when  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  earth  was  his,  full  of  romance,  full  of  adventure, 
full  of  rabbits  —  those  hundreds  of  rabbits  you  saw 
that  morning,  when  I  saw  but  two.  But  most  of  all, 
I  imagine  that  he  misses  that  playground  of  his  — 
your  garden  —  for  I  remember  the  very  first  morn- 
ing before  breakfast,  after  you  had  taken  him  out 
for  a  walk,  he  came  to  me  and,  in  his  own  manner, 
told  me  what  he  thought  of  it  all.  He  raced  a  dozen 


258  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

times  round  one  of  your  beds  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five.  If  you  don't  know  what  I  mean  by  an  angle  of 
forty-five,  ask  Cruikshank.  He  will  explain  it  to  you 
by  means  of  trigonometry  which  I  know  will  please 
you. 

That,  at  any  rate,  was  the  expression  of  all  he 
felt  about  the  country  on  his  first  morning  in  Bally- 
sheen.  Remember,  it  was  round  the  beds  he  raced 
—  not  over  them.  His  interest  in  flowers  is  too 
great  for  him  ever  to  destroy  them.  I  know  this  by 
the  way  he  watched  me  when  I  planted  the  snow- 
drops and  crocuses  in  my  window-boxes.  I  say  this 
to  reassure  you. 

So  far  as  his  habits  are  concerned,  I  don't  think  I 
can  tell  you  anything  but  what  you  do  not  know 
already.  We  give  him  two  meals  of  dog's  biscuits 
every  day.  He  does  not  like  them  broken  up  on  a 
plate,  preferring  rather  to  have  them  thrown  to  him 
whole.  But  Moxon,  who  I  am  sending  with  him  for 
safe  conduct,  will  explain  all  this. 

Write  as  soon  as  you  can  and  let  me  know  that  he 
has  arrived  safely.  Tell  me,  moreover,  if  you  will, 
that  you  are  not  inconvenienced  by  this  unexpected 
arrival  in  your  family. 

God  bless  you.  I  add  this,  not  only  because  I  like 
the  phrase,  but  because  I  believe  in  its  efficaciousness 
for  those  who  merit  it.  Lastly,  give  my  love  to 
Cruikshank  and  tell  him  that  when  he  sets  to  the 
making  of  his  new  garden  in  the  hollow,  he  must  fill 
it  with  sweet  peas.  I  wanted  to  grow  them  in  my 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  259 

window-boxes,    but   was    told    it    was    out    of   the 
question. 

Good-bye  —  Yours  A.  H.  BELLAIRS. 

As  soon  as  I  had  sealed  the  letter  and  addressed  it, 
I  sent  for  Moxon. 

"  I  Ve  got  a  commission  and  a  journey  for  you, 
Moxon,"  said  I,  when  he  came  in.  He  bent  his  head, 
saying  nothing  until  he  had  heard  what  it  was. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  Dandy,"  I  continued,  "  and 
leave  him  in  the  care  of  Mrs.  Townshend  in  Bally- 
sheen.  Can  you  get  what  few  things  you  '11  need 
ready  in  time  to  catch  the  night  train  to  Fishguard 
this  evening?  " 

For  a  while  he  stood  there  and  looked  at  me  as 
though  I  had  said  not  one  single  word  which  he  was 
capable  of  understanding.  His  jaw  did  not  exactly 
drop,  but  there  was  all  that  expression  about  his  face 
as  if  it  might  at  any  moment. 

"  Don't  you  follow  me?  "  said  I. 

"Yes,  sir  —  " 

"Well?" 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  leave  Dandy  there, 
sir?" 

"  Oh  —  for  good.  I  am  making  a  present  of  him 
to  Mrs.  Townshend." 

The  poor  man  looked  bewildered.  I  could  see  he 
had  so  much  to  say,  yet  was  endeavoring  his  utmost 
to  recollect  his  place  lest  he  should  speak  all  there 
was  in  his  mind. 


260  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  What 's  troubling  you?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  can't  quite  understand  it,  sir,"  he  replied, 
frowning  heavily,  as  he  tried  to  impress  it  upon  his 
mind.  "Dandy  —  he's  such  a  companion  to  you, 
sir  —  to  both  of  us,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so. 
He  's  like  a  person  about  the  house.  The  way  he 
runs  for  his  biscuits  —  the  way  he  sits  up  for  you 
when  you  go  out  to  supper.  What  I  mean  to  say, 
sir,  he  's  more  than  a  dog  if  he  is  less  than  a  'uman 
being.  Why  —  I  Ve  seen  him,  sir,  of  a  night  before 
you  Ve  come  in,  go  down  to  the  hall  at  about  a 
quarter-past  twelve  when  I  suppose  he  'd  thought 
it  was  half-past  —  I  Ve  seen  him  go  down  to  the 
hall  door  and  stand  there  listening  to  the  sound  of 
every  footstep  as  came  along  the  street.  To  every 
sound  he  'd  prick  up  his  ears,  expecting  it  was  you. 
Well — you've  seen  him,  sir,  when  you've  come 
in  of  an  evening.  What  I  mean  to  say  —  I  don't 
think  you'd — " 

I  got  up  quickly  from  my  chair. 

"  All  right,  Moxon,"  said  I.  "  I  'm  quite  aware 
of  all  this.  Can  you  be  ready  to  catch  the  night 
train  to  Fishguard?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  He  just  bent  his  head  and 
left  the  room. 

Perhaps  it  was  for  ten  minutes  that  I  leant  on 
the  mantelpiece  staring  down  into  the  fire.  At  last 
I  stood  up.  It  was  no  good.  My  mind  was  made 
up.  I  stamped  the  letter  to  Bellwattle  and  went 
out  to  find  Dandy. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  261 

He  was  there  in  the  hall,  where  Moxon  gives 
the  illusion  of  life  to  his  biscuits,  and  Moxon  was 
bending  over  him,  saying  something.  I  did  not  hear 
a  word  he  said,  and  at  my  approach,  he  got  up 
quickly  and  walked  away,  but  something  I  saw  made 
me  hesitate  more  than  I  had  hesitated  for  the  past 
three  weeks.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  to  blame  me?  "  said  I  to  Dandy 
—  then  I  picked  him  up  in  my  arms  and  carried  him 
into  my  room.  There  I  told  him  everything.  I 
reminded  him  of  that  first  morning  in  Ballysheen, 
how  readily  he  had  gone  out  with  Bellwattle  for  a 
walk,  never  missing  me  at  all.  I  brought  back  to 
his  mind  those  little  white  jerky  behinds  of  the 
rabbits  which,  when  they  move,  so  excite  all  his 
proclivities  for  sport. 

*  You  get  none  of  that  sort  of  thing  here,"  said  I. 

I  tried  at  last  to  read  him  a  lecture  on  the  psy- 
chology of  dogs,  explaining  how  a  kind  master  or 
mistress  and  all  the  stretch  of  an  open  country  will 
soon  ease  their  minds  of  all  regret. 

"  And  you  know  how  kind  Bellwattle  is,"  I  added. 

'  You  remember  how  she  kissed  you  when  you 

went  away.     But  I  suppose  you  're  accustomed  to 

that  sort  of  thing  from  ladies.     It 's  the  rabbits 

you  're  less  likely  to  forget." 

"  I  knew  a  dog,"  said  he,  "  who  died  of  loneli- 
ness when  his  master  left  him." 

"  Ah  —  but  you  won't  be  lonely,"  I  answered, 
quickly.  '  You  '11  miss  me  a  bit  —  but  you  won't 


262  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

be  lonely.  Why  I  might  call  a  thousand  times  when 
you  were  after  a  rabbit  and  you  wouldn't  come 
back." 

"  Yes  —  but  then  I  knew  you  thought  I  would  n't 
catch  it." 

I  think  I  persuaded  him  though  that  my  knowl- 
edge of  a  dog's  psychology  was  quite  right,  and  for 
the  rest  of  that  evening  we  sat  together.  We  had 
tea  together.  He  likes  his  weak  and  out  of  the 
slop  bowl. 

But  at  last  came  Moxon  to  catch  his  train. 

"Is  Dandy  ready,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"  Quite,"  said  I.    It  was  a  short  word. 

I  fastened  the  chain  on  to  his  collar  for  the  last 
time  and  patted  his  head. 

"  Good-bye,  old  man,"  said  I,  and  then  Moxon, 
who  is  a  man  of  much  sense,  took  him  out  of  the 
room  as  I  walked  across  to  my  desk  and  picked 
up  a  bill  to  read. 

The  moment  they  were  in  the  hall,  I  laid  the  bill 
back  on  the  desk  and  listened.  The  hall  door  was 
opened.  It  was  closed.  I  half  walked  to  the  win- 
dow; then  stopped.  What  was  the  good? 

A  moment  later  I  heard  a  bark  in  the  street.  I 
do  not  know,  but  I  suppose  after  all  I  must  be  a  sen- 
timentalist. It  seemed  to  me  to  say  —  "  Good-bye." 

Anyhow,  I  knew  by  that  I  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  have  been  gone  two  days.  I  could  scarcely 
have  believed  that  forty-eight  hours  can  so  com- 
parably measure  Eternity.  For  two  days  the  house 
in  Mount  Street  —  so  far,  at  least,  as  I  am  con- 
cerned with  it  —  has  been  empty.  Yet  I  have  had 
plenty  to  do.  There  have  been  numberless  letters 
to  write.  In  an  odd  way  it  has  amused  me  to  find 
how  many  people  the  most  common  necessities  of 
life  bring  into  one's  existence.  Consider  tradesmen 
alone !  It  took  me  one  day  at  least  of  conscientious 
hard  work  to  go  through  and  settle  up  all  my  ac- 
counts. Yesterday  I  went  into  the  Park  in  the  morn- 
ing. There  may  have  been  signs  of  buds  swelling  on 
my  plane  tree,  but  possibly  that  was  my  imagination. 

In  the  afternoon  I  wrote  to  my  father  and  those 
few  men  to  whom  it  seemed  I  owed  a  letter.  That 
did  not  take  me  long.  There  were  only  two.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  wrote  two  more  but  tore  them  up. 
Upon  re-reading,  they  gave  me  the  impression  that 
I  was  taking  myself  too  seriously. 

And  now  this  morning,  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  since  Moxon's  departure,  I  was  sitting  in  my 
room.  Everything  is  complete.  I  cannot  think  of  one 
thing  I  have  left  undone.  For  Moxon  himself,  I  have 


264  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

left  a  letter.  It  was  the  last  and  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  I  had  to  write.  But  there  it  is,  sealed  and  ad- 
dressed, lying  on  the  top  of  the  others  on  my  desk. 

For  a  little  while  I  had  considered  whether  I 
should  write  anything  to  Clarissa.  I  suppose  this 
is  the  most  selfish  moment  in  my  life.  The  slightest 
contemplation  showed  me  how  cruel  a  thing  it  would 
be.  The  letter  is  not  written.  And  now  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  I  cannot  forbear  smiling, 
just  for  a  moment,  at  that  bright  yellow  row  of 
crocuses  which  adorns  my  window-boxes.  They 
have  come  up  with  such  success,  but  have  failed  so 
utterly  to  fulfil  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  in- 
tended. I  wonder  if  those  in  Cruikshank's  garden 
are  any  better  than  these. 

It  strikes  me  with  quaint  amusement,  too,  that 
had  I  been  able  to  raise  sweet  peas,  I  might  now  be 
waiting  with  growing  interest  to  see  the  first  sight 
of  their  little  heads  of  green.  But  sweet  peas  do  not 
grow  in  London.  I  am  not  surprised.  These  later 
days  in  February  can  be  bitter  cold.  I  find  myself 
compelled  for  comfort's  sake  to  close  the  little  strip 
of  open  window  and  poke  up  the  fire  into  a  more 
cheerful  blaze. 

The  sky  is  all  grey  outside.  A  faint  rent  of  blue 
was  visible  for  one  short  moment  this  morning.  Just 
in  that  single  instant  it  brought  me  a  sudden  rush 
of  eagerness,  eagerness  to  see  the  whole  raiment 
without  one  seam  of  clouds,  as  it  was  so  many  days 
last  May  in  Ballysheen.  But  the  grey  soon  swept  over 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  265 

it.  It  looks  now  as  though  we  were  not  far  from  rain. 
Yet,  as  the  hall-porter  at  the  club  remarked,  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  say.  There  is  no  broad  horizon  from  which 
to  see  the  way  the  weather  comes.  It  is  curious  that 
I  should  wonder  about  it  one  way  or  another.  It 
matters  so  little.  It  does  not  matter  at  all. 

So  this  is  the  end  of  my  adventure.  I  feel  that 
I  have  taken  up  my  pen  to  but  little  purpose.  It 
will  not  be  so  when  I  put  it  down.  In  less  than  half 
an  hour  the  ink  on  it  will  be  dry.  I  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  not  a  year  has  passed  since  that  morning 
when  I  sat  in  the  Park  watching  the  little  nursery 
maid  with  her  electrician.  It  was  the  same  night 
that  I  heard  the  story  of  Clarissa  and  her  gown  of 
canary-colored  satin.  It  was  the  same  night  I  horri- 
fied Moxon  by  introducing  that  poor  creature  with 
her  sodden  clothes  —  and  now! 

But  all  this  delay  in  a  measure  is  unnerving  me. 
I  have  nothing  more  to  write,  I  — 

There  is  something  strange  in  that.  I  have  still 
more  to  write.  The  bell  has  rung  —  the  electric- 
bell  which  rings  in  Moxon's  room.  Probably  it  is 
a  tradesman  whose  account  is  settled  by  cheque,  and 
sealed  up  in  one  of  those  envelopes  on  my  desk. 
Shall  I  answer  it?  It  has  just  rung  again.  He  will 
ring  once  more,  perhaps,  and  then  go  away. 

He  has  rung  once  more.  If  I  could  only  see  the 
doorstep  from  the  window !  Oh !  —  but  let  him 
ring  and  go  away!  Let  him  go  on  ringing!  He 
will  soon  tire  of  it,  and  I  shall  be  left  In  peace. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  HAVE  never  yet  determined  to  my  satisfaction 
whether  Life  be  merely  the  spinning  of  a  coin  or  a 
great  scheme  working  itself  towards  completion  by 
a  series  of  steps,  undeviating  in  their  perfect  arith- 
metical progression. 

I  know  it  matters  little,  one  way  or  the  other.  The 
thought  only  recurred  to  my  mind  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  had  that  bell  been  rung  only  four  times, 
I  should  not  have  answered  it.  But  it  was  rung  five, 
whereupon  it  came  to  me  in  speculation  that  no 
tradesman  would  have  such  patience  as  that  and, 
rising  from  my  chair,  I  went  into  the  hall.  When  I 
opened  the  door,  there  stood  Clarissa. 

I  suppose  it  was  amazement  that  deprived  me  of 
speech.  For  a  moment  I  could  but  stand  and  gaze 
at  her.  There  was  not  merely  the  astonishment  in 
my  mind  at  finding  that  it  was  she;  there  was  be- 
wilderment also  at  the  change  which  had  taken  place 
in  her.  She  looked  ill.  But  it  was  not  only  that; 
she  looked  somehow  in  need  of  food.  There  was 
that  nameless  suggestion  in  her  appearance  as  when 
a  woman  has  ceased  to  care  for  her  looks.  It  was 
apparent  notwithstanding  that  her  clothes  were  well 
made  and  costly.  I  knew  that  something  had  hap- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  267 

pened,  but  what  with  the  amazement  of  seeing  her 
there  and  the  bewilderment  at  finding  her  as  she  was, 
between  the  two  I  was  at  a  loss  for  words.  It  must 
have  been  half  a  minute  that  I  stood  waiting  in  si- 
lence, still  holding  to  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  I  asked  at  last. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,"  said  she. 

I  held  the  door  wide  open  for  her  to  pass  through, 
and  as  I  realized  from  what  her  coming  had  saved 
me,  all  my  body  fell  to  shaking  as  though  a  fit  of 
ague  were  upon  me.  I  felt  like  one  who,  calm 
though  he  may  have  been  when  danger  threatened, 
is  made  suddenly  aware  of  it  when  it  has  passed. 

"  Go  into  my  sitting-room,"  said  I,  and  a  moment 
later,  when  I  had  pulled  myself  together,  I  followed 
her. 

She  was  sitting  timidly  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  near 
the  fire  and  her  whole  attitude  was  a  mute  apology 
for  her  presence  in  my  room.  All  through  her 
body,  I  knew  she  was  shivering.  There  was  no  out- 
ward sign  of  it,  but  by  the  way  she  held  to  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  by  the  very  posture  she  had  adopted, 
it  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that  all  her  nerves  were 
trembling  with  vibration  after  a  great  strain.  I 
closed  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  me  for  coming 
here  after  that  letter  I  returned — after — " 

She  began  that  way;  then  almost  all  sound  went 
out  of  her  voice.  I  saw  her  lips  move,  but  could 
hear  no  more  than  a  pathetic  murmuring  of  words. 


268  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  can't  quite  make  it  out,"  I  admitted  quickly, 
"but  does  that  matter?  You  needn't  think  about 
the  letter  —  that  was  a  month  ago.  You've  come 
to  tell  me  what 's  happened  since.  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

I  drew  up  my  chair  to  the  fire.  "  It  will  give  her 
the  impression,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  that  we  have 
talked  like  this  a  hundred  times  before."  Of  course, 
it  may  not  have  done  so  at  all.  I  only  know  that 
women  are  susceptible  to  such  little  matters  as  these. 
Doubtless  they  make  life  easier.  I  am  certain  that 
the  absence  of  them  makes  it  more  difficult.  Yet  in 
this  instance  it  seemed  not  to  help  Clarissa  at  all. 
She  just  looked  up  at  me  with  her  big  eyes,  which  I 
shall  ever  remember  best  of  all  when  they  were  full 
of  anger,  but  still  she  could  not  answer.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  weight  of  all  she  had  to  tell  was  too 
heavily  laid  upon  her  for  speech.  But  knowing 
nothing,  how  could  I  help  her?  And  so  we  might 
have  continued  had  I  not  thought  suddenly  of  that 
look  of  hunger  which  I  imagined  I  had  seen  in  her 
face  when  I  first  opened  the  door. 

''  Wait  a  minute,"  said  I,  and  I  spoke  easily, 
quickly,  as  though  I  would  interrupt  her,  "  let 's 
have  tea  first.  Would  n't  you  like  some  tea?  " 

The  very  sound  of  it  brought  a  different  look  into 
her  eyes.  I  swear  to  Heaven,  I  believed  then  I  could 
have  made  her  happy.  It  is  knowing  these  little 
things  about  women  that  count  so  much,  and  a  long 
day  is  full  of  them.  I  do  not  know  how  I  have  learnt 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  269 

them.  It  is  not  from  experience.  But  it  would 
seem  that  I  have  grown  up  with  the  knowledge  that 
to  anticipate  her  needs  is  a  finer  jewel  to  a  woman 
than  any  diamond  set  in  platinum.  The  fact  that 
she  would  choose  the  diamond  is  no  proof  that  she 
must  like  it  best. 

Directly  I  saw  that  expression  in  Clarissa's  face 
I  rose  and  rang  the  bell  for  my  housekeeper  who, 
in  Moxon's  absence,  was  looking  after  me. 

"  Now  what  shall  we  have  to  eat? "  said  I. 
"  What  you  like  —  hot  buttered  toast,  muffins,  tea- 
cakes,  scones?  " 

It  pleases  them  also  to  know  that  there  is  a  lot 
to  choose  from.  They  love  being  unable  to  make  up 
their  minds  amidst  a  galaxy  of  riches.  They  like 
you  to  select  for  them,  just  so  that  they  may  realize 
how  your  selection  has  eliminated  the  very  thing 
they  did  not  want. 

We  went  through  it  all  —  every  stage.  She  left  it 
to  me  to  choose. 

'  Tea-cake,"  said  I,  because  I  knew  that  we  should 
have  to  send  out  to  buy  them,  and  I  wanted  to  buy 
something  for  her.  I  have  said  it  before;  I  envy  the 
men  who  buy  things  for  women.  She  looked  doubtful. 

"  Scones,"  I  suggested.  We  should  have  had  to 
send  out  for  scones,  too.  But  she  chose  hot  buttered 
toast.  That  is  just  the  way  these  things  go.  When 
Mrs.  Bullwell  answered  the  bell,  I  told  her  to  bring 
the  whole  business  as  quick  as  she  could. 

"What  made  you  think  of  tea?  "  asked  Clarissa. 


270  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  It 's  the  time,"  said  I,  "  nearly  five." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  did  think  of  it." 

"Why?" 

"  I  'm  hungry." 

"  Yes  —  I  knew  you  were,"  I  said  quickly.  "  I 
saw  it  in  your  face.  You  have  n't  had  any  lunch." 

"  I  have  n't  had  anything  to-day." 

"Good  Lord!    Why  not?" 

She  looked  at  me  nervously,  as  though  I  ought  to 
know  all  about  it;  as  if  I  were  asking  these  questions 
solely  in  order  to  put  her  to  the  pain  of  telling  me. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  repeated,  "  that  you 
have  n't  had  one  morsel  of  food  to-day?  " 

When  she  shook  her  head  two  or  three  times,  I 
went  straight  to  the  door  and  called  for  Mrs. 
Bullwell. 

"  What 's  it  to  be?  "  I  asked.  "  Don't  say  a  chop 
because  it 's  the  first  thing  that  comes  into  your  head. 
Will  you  have  some  eggs  or  — ?  " 

"  A  chop,"  said  she. 

I  persuaded  Mrs.  Bullwell  to  promise  it  in  ten 
minutes. 

"  And  open  a  bottle  of  that  claret,"  said  I,  as  she 
departed.  "  We  sha'n't  want  any  tea  now.  Well  — 
I  '11  have  some,  but  you  can  get  it  afterwards." 

Then  I  closed  the  door  and  came  back  to  Clarissa. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  said  I.  I  know  I 
tried  to  speak  as  a  father  speaks  to  his  child.  I  tried 
to  forget  how  I  cared  for  her.  It  is  not  to  the  man 
who  is  hopelessly  wasting  his  heart  on  her  that  a 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  271 

woman  gives  her  confidence.  "  Something  has  hap- 
pened to  you,"  I  added.  "  What  is  it?  " 

She  pulled  off  her  gloves.  She  pulled  them  off  in 
that  nervous  way  by  which  you  knew  that  she  was 
quite  unconscious  of  her  action.  Then  her  lip 
quivered.  I  felt  the  struggle  in  her  heart  to  keep 
back  the  tears.  In  a  vain  way  I  strove  with  her,  too. 
For  what  should  I  have  done  had  she  wept  then? 
In  all  conscience  it  had  been  difficult  enough  on  the 
cliffs  at  Ballysheen;  but  now,  when  I  knew  how  much 
she  was  to  me,  when  I  saw  quite  clearly  from  what 
her  coming  had  saved  me,  tears  in  her  eyes  then 
would  have  been  my  certain  undoing.  For  undoubt- 
edly it  was  Clarissa  who  had  saved  me.  But  for  her, 
I  should  by  this  time  have  been  set  forth  upon  my 
great  adventure.  It  was  so  utterly  impossible  now. 
Some  woman  at  last  had  come  to  me  in  trouble. 
Some  woman!  It  was  the  very  woman  in  all  the 
jvorld  whose  trouble  I  would  most  easily  have  borne. 

When  I  saw  the  tightness  set  firm  upon  her  lips  once 
more,  for  there  was  well  a  moment  while  she  strug- 
gled with  its  quivering,  then  I  leant  forward.  I  knew 
I  must  drag  the  story  from  her;  so  I  felt  my  way  with 
guessing,  half  knowing  what  had  happened,  leaving 
her,  in  little  broken  syllables,  to  tell  me  all  the  rest. 

"  Come,"  said  I,  gently,  "  you  must  tell  me.  Has 
he  been  cruel  to  you?  " 

She  bent  her  head  in  silence. 

"  But  how?  How  cruel?  In  what  way?  Where 
is  he  now?  " 


272  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know?    When  did  you  see  him  last?  " 

"  Three  weeks  ago." 

"Where?" 

11  Where  he  lived." 

"  Three  weeks  ago?    Has  he  gone  away?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you.  I  Ve  been  back  to  the  flat  once 
or  twice,  but  he  won't  see  me." 

"  You've  been  back?  Then  he's  there?  Where 
have  you  been  living,  then?  " 

"  I  had  a  little  room  in  Netting  Hill.  It 's  be- 
cause I  Ve  got  no  money  to  pay  for  my  lodging  —  " 

Her  lip  began  its  quivering  once  more. 

"  That  you  came  to  me?  Because  you  Ve  got  no 
money?  Where  is  all  your  money?  " 

"  It 's  spent.    He  says  there  is  no  more." 

I  could  sit  still  no  longer.  It  was  only  possible  to 
hear  her  story  as  I  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  But  why  did  he  send  you  away?"  I  continued. 
"  You  're  his  wife.  He  must  keep  you;  he  must  sup- 
port you;  a  thousand  times  more  now  that  he  has 
spent  every  farthing  that  you  have.  He  must  go  and 
work  his  fingers  to  the  bone.  He  must  slave  like  a 
dog  now  —  give  his  whole  life  up  to  the  reparation 
of  the  loss  he  's  brought  you.  You  Ve  every  cause 
to  insist  upon  it.  You  must  insist  upon  it.  It 's  your 
right  —  your  common  right.  Good  Lord,  you  're  his 
wife!"  ' 

She  looked  very  straightly  in  my  face.  Her  own 
was  pale  as  though  all  anger  in  it  had  burnt  to  whit- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  273 

ened  ashes.  The  deep  hollows  of  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  ominous  shadows.  At  that  gaze  of  hers,  I 
thought:  "  Supposing  she  might  die."  I  cannot  tell 
why  it  came  into  my  mind,  for  how  could  I  have 
known?  A  month  ago  I  had  seen  her  well  —  in  a 
forced  gaiety  of  spirits.  How  could  I  have  dreamed 
she  was  so  near  the  very  climax  of  her  suffering?  So 
I  let  the  thought  pass  on  and  felt  it  shudder  through 
me.  I  misread  that  steady  gazing  of  her  eyes.  I 
never  guessed  that  she  was  asking  of  me  more  un- 
derstanding than  a  man  can  give.  How  should  I 
have  understood?  And  yet  a  woman  would  have 
known.  Long  before  this  a  woman  would  have 
taken  the  knowledge  that  was  being  withheld  from 
her.  But  in  my  blind  innocence  I  struggled  on,  drag- 
ging her  to  the  very  pinnacle  of  her  shame. 

"  Don't  you  realize  the  rights  of  a  wife?  "  I  per- 
sisted. "  Your  husband  can't  cast  you  off  like  this. 
He  can't  despoil  you  of  everything  you  have  and  then 
fling  you  aside.  You  're  flesh  and  blood  —  you  're 
not  a  garment  that  is  threadbare." 

And  when  I  saw  her  poor  white  face  staring  into 
mine,  I  gave  the  wrench  its  final  turn  to  make  her 
agony  of  mind  more  sure.  God  knows  I  little  thought. 

'  You  're  treating  yourself  as  though  you  were  a 
worthless  woman,  as  though  you  were  property  he 
had  bought  and  might  chuck  away  at  will.  But 
you  're  his  wife  and  if  you  never  see  him  again  — 
you  might  thank  God  if  you  didn't  —  you  must 
make  him  support  you  with  the  last  penny  he  has." 


274  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

It  was  then  she  said  it  —  said  it  in  a  voice  that 
was  colorless  and  dead;  in  a  voice  as  when  a  prisoner 
pleads  guilty  to  the  vilest  possibility  of  crime. 

"  I  'm  not  his  wife,"  she  murmured. 

Her  voice  was  low,  almost  to  a  whisper  and  yetr 
had  she  shouted  it,  the  silence  coming  after  could 
not  have  been  so  great.  The  whole  house  in  one 
moment  was  made  quiet.  Even  a  hansom  jangling 
down  the  street  came  to  my  ears  as  such  a  sound  is 
meant  to  reach  you  in  play. 

"  I  shall  remember  afterwards,"  I  said  to  myself* 
**  that  I  heard  a  hansom  rattling  down  the  street." 
And  I  have  remembered  it;  but  that  thought  is  the 
only  one  that  returns  to  my  mind.  I  can  see  things 
as  they  were.  I  can  see  her  eyes  trying  to  reach  to 
mine,  then  falling  till  her  hands  had  covered  them. 
I  can  see  the  little,  huddled-up  figure,  full  of  pathos* 
that  she  presented  to  my  eyes.  I  can  see  Mrs.  Bull- 
well  coming  in  through  the  door  with  her  tray  of 
things,  the  uncorked  bottle  of  claret  standing  high 
and  black  above  the  dishes. 

But  she  came  too  late.  As  she  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her,  the  pathetic  little  figure  before  me  crumpled 
up  like  a  garment  that  can  no  longer  stand  upon  the 
firmness  of  its  texture.  With  a  weary  sigh  that  drove 
a  sickness  to  my  throat,  Clarissa  tumbled  from  her 
chair.  I  found  her  curled,  as  Dandy  curls  himself, 
into  a  circle  at  my  feet.  But  she  was  so  still.  Her 
body  was  stiller  than  if  she  slept. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

"  OH  dear!  Oh  dear!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bullwell, 
"  the  poor  thing  's  fainted!  " 

There  was  a  comfortable  sound  in  that  homely 
phrase,  yet  still  it  seemed  more  than  mere  fainting 
to  me.  Doubtless  women  are  accustomed  to  these 
little  misadventures.  They  think  nothing  of  them. 
But  with  a  man,  and  when  it  is  the  woman  whom  he 
loves,  I  defy  him  to  look  with  equanimity  at  the  still 
white  face,  the  closed  eyes  and  that  apparent  cessa- 
tion of  all  breathing. 

We  lifted  her  on  to  the  settee  and  Mrs.  Bullwell 
began  to  apply  those  remedies  which,  among  her  sex, 
will  never  pass  out  of  use.  She  undid  Clarissa's 
collar  and  her  dress.  She  patted  her  hands  and  all 
with  that  quiet  assurance  of  manner  as  though  it 
were  just  in  the  day's  work. 

"  Poor  thing,  poor  thing,"  she  kept  on  muttering. 
"  She  do  look  pale,  don't  she?  You  'd  think  she  was 
dead  to  look  at  her  —  you  would  indeed." 

"  My  God!  Get  some  brandy!  "  said  I,  "  while  I 
telephone  for  a  doctor." 

"  My  goodness,  sir,  don't  go  to  the  expense  of  a 
doctor,  she  '11  be  all  right  in  a  minute  or  two.  It 's 
only  a  little  weakness.  I  have  Jem  myself  sometimes 


276  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

in  the  summer  when  it 's  hot  in  the  kitchen.  It  passes 
off  if  I  sit  down  a  bit." 

"  Get  that  brandy,"  I  repeated,  and  I  rang  up  my; 
friend  Perowne. 

"  Will  the  cooking  brandy  do,  sir?  "  she  asked,  as 
she  went  to  the  door. 

"  Cooking  I    Good  Lord,  no  I    Liqueur  I  " 

By  good  fortune  Perowne  was  in  and  promised  to 
be  with  me  at  once.  Then  I  turned  to  Clarissa. 
Much  against  her  will,  Mrs.  Bullwell  had  gone  for 
the  best  brandy  and  we  were  alone.  I  leant  down  my 
head  to  listen  for  her  breathing.  It  was  so  faintly 
audible  that  I  had  to  hold  my  own  that  I  might  hear 
it.  And  then,  as  I  bent  still  lower,  my  cheek  touched 
her  lips.  They  were  so  cold;  yet  they  set  the  blood 
racing  hot  in  me.  I  rose  quickly  from  my  knees  and 
walked  to  the  open  window.  That  must  have  been 
what  a  young  man  feels  when  first  he  is  kissed  by  the 
first  woman  he  loves.  Events  had  passed  so  quickly 
with  me  in  the  last  half-hour.  I  had  been  so  near  to 
one  great  adventure  and  now  was  near  to  the  greatest 
adventure  of  all.  It  left  the  pulses  beating  in  my 
forehead,  my  throat  dry  and  every  muscle  in  my  body 
vibrating. 

No  doubt  it  was  well  that  Mrs.  Bullwell  should 
come  in  at  that  moment  with  the  brandy.  It  gave 
me  something  else  to  think  about.  We  put  the  glass 
to  her  lips,  but  she  made  no  effort  to  swallow.  The 
brandy  trickled  down  her  chin  and  fell  in  drops  upon 
her  dress. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  277 

"  She  's  thin,  poor  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bullwell. 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  whispered,  "  do  you  think 
she  '11  come  round?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  she  will,  sir.  I  Ve  never  heard 
of  no  woman  dying  in  a  faint.  Yes  —  I  'ave,  though. 
A  cousin  of  mine  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  just  like 
this  young  lady,  she  died  in  a  faint  —  never  came  to 
again.  We  laid  her  on  a  couch  just  like  this.  We 
patted  her  hands,  we  gave  her  —  well,  there  was  no 
brandy  in  the  house  —  but  we  gave  her  a  drop  of 
gin.  But  she  never  took  no  notice  of  nothing.  She 
went  off  as  though  she  'd  gone  to  sleep  and  that  was 
the  end  of  her.  The  doctor  made  sure  she  was  quite 
dead  before  we  buried  her." 

I  felt  I  could  listen  to  no  more  of  that.  Another 
word  or  two  from  Mrs.  Bullwell  of  that  nature  and 
she  would  have  guessed  my  secret.  I  went  out  to 
the  hall  door  and  waited  on  the  steps.  When  Pe- 
rowne  arrived  I  brought  him  straight  into  the  room. 
He  asked  for  no  explanation.  How  I  blessed  him  for 
that! 

"  Shall  I  go  out  of  the  room?  "  I  asked. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,"  said  he. 

So  I  stood  staring  out  of  the  window,  and  not  one 
vehicle  that  passed,  not  one  human  being  who  went 
by  did  I  see.  All  my  senses  were  strained  to  the 
hearing  of  the  first  sound  of  Clarissa's  voice. 

"He  '11  bring  her  round,"  I  continually  said 
to  myself.  "  He  '11  bring  her  round,  if  any  one 
can." 


278  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken.  It  came  at  last  to 
be  more  than  I  could  bear.  I  faced  round  into  the 
room. 

"Can't  you  do  anything?"  said  I.  "Can't  you 
bring  her  round  again?" 

He  stood  up  and  looked  at  me.  I  knew  he  guessed 
it  all  by  then.  But  he  only  asked  if  there  were  a  bed 
where  we  could  put  her. 

"  She  must  go  to  bed  at  once,"  said  he. 

"There's  Mr.  Moxon's  bed,"  began  Mrs. 
Bullwell. 

"  I  '11  sleep  there,"  said  I.    "  Put  her  in  my  room." 

There  was  no  surprise  in  Perowne's  face,  but  I  am 
sure  that  if  Mrs.  Bullwell  had  described  her  feelings 
she  would  have  made  some  allusion  to  that  feather 
.which  has  the  power  to  lay  low  a  woman  even  of  her 
proportions. 

So  we  carried  her  upstairs  and  laid  her  on  my  bed, 
I  wonder  shall  I  ever  forget  the  strangeness  of  that 
first  sensation  which  the  sight  of  Clarissa's  head  upon 
my  pillow  brought  me.  But  I  was  not  allowed  to  look 
at  her  for  long.  Perowne  told  me  to  go  downstairs 
and  wait. 

"  I  'II  come  and  tell  you  how  we  're  getting  on 
in  a  minute  or  two.  Don't  worry  yourself.  Have 
some  tea." 

My  Lord!  They  are  casual,  these  doctors!  It 
strikes  you  like  that  when  they  are  dealing  with 
some  one  in  the  hollow  of  whose  hand  lies  your  only 
hope  of  happiness. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  279 

I  went  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind me.  But  to  take  tea  when  such  an  issue  as 
Clarissa's  life  was  weighing  in  the  balance!  I  can- 
not remember  walking  downstairs  to  my  room. 
The  first  thing  that  comes  back  to  me  is  the  memory 
of  standing  by  my  table  with  that  little  weapon  in 
my  hand  which  was  to  have  done  for  me  such  won- 
ders of  legerdemain.  With  one  touch  of  its  bright 
steel  trigger  I  was  to  have  passed  from  that  pit  of 
depression  —  to  what?  The  forgetfulness,  the  ob- 
livion I  suppose  which,  since  my  visit  to  Ballysheen, 
I  had  lost  all  power  to  conjure  in  my  mind. 

I  think  I  must  have  stood  some  moments  looking 
at  it,  holding  it  out  in  the  palm  of  my  open  hand. 
At  last  I  locked  it  away  in  an  empty  drawer.  I  had 
no  further  use  for  it  then.  I  had  come  back  to  the 
power  of  something  better  than  oblivion.  Since 
that  moment  when  Clarissa's  lips  had  touched  my 
cheek,  I  had  discovered  once  more  that  priceless 
secret  of  remembrance.  If  Clarissa's  life  were  safe 
it  mattered  little  to  me  what  issue  should  befall. 
She  had  come  to  me  in  trouble.  I  might  never  win 
her  more  than  that.  Indeed,  I  scarcely  hoped  of  it. 
Her  words  on  the  cliffs  that  day  at  Ballysheen  were 
always  ringing  in  my  ears.  "  .You  're  ugly  I  You 
couldn't  tell  the  truth!  " 

Perhaps  she  believed  the  truth  was  possible  to  me 
now.  That  she  had  come  to  me,  and  alone,  was 
almost  proof  of  it.  But  nothing  could  ever  alter  the 
other  accusation.  She  might  trust  me  implicitly  by 


280  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

this,  but  any  passion  for  me,  that  I  knew  was  im- 
possible. It  was  sufficient  for  me  that  she  had 
placed  herself  in  my  hands.  It  was  more  than  suffi- 
cient that  now,  with  all  her  tragedy  and  her  disillu- 
sionment, she  might  come  to  look  upon  me  as  her 
protector.  Who  could  tell  but  one  day,  impover- 
ished as  she  was,  she  might  let  me  take  her  to  some 
dressmaker's  and  say:  "Show  this  lady  the  best 
dresses  that  you  Ve  got." 

Possibly  that  is  not  the  way  it  is  done.  But  I  may 
learn  one  of  these  days  how  women  manage  such 
things. 

Whatever  the  issue  might  be  I  knew  then  that  I 
had  plenty  to  live  for.  She  was  penniless.  She  was 
at  the  mercy  of  all  I  could  do  for  her.  But  suddenly 
came  the  fear  that  she  might  ask  me  to  send  her 
back  to  Dominica.  Yet  even  that,  cruel  a  return  to 
such  hopes  of  mine  as  it  might  seem,  would  still 
leave  me  with  the  consciousness  that  I  had  justified 
my  existence. 

"  But  she  won't  do  that,"  said  I.  "  She  could  n't 
do  that.  Women  have  bigger  hearts  than  that  — 
moreover,  women  understand.  She  could  n't  do 
that." 

Yet  I  suppose  I  must  really  have  feared  it,  but 
when  the  door  opened  and  Perowne  closed  it  after 
him,  all  thoughts  of  what  might  happen  in  the  future 
were  gone  from  me.  The  immediate  present  looked 
at  me  forebodingly  from  his  eyes. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  281; 

"Well,"  I  said  quickly,  "what  is  it?  Is  she 
better?  What 's  happened?  Have  you  brought  her 
to?" 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  about  this?"  said  he. 

"About  what?" 

"  She  's  going  to  have  a  child." 


CHAPTER   IX 

So  far  as  women  are  concerned  it  has  left  me 
severely  alone.  Times  out  of  number  in  the  ambling 
course  of  these  pages  I  have  wished  that  it  were 
otherwise.  Now  was  ever  the  wish  of  a  man  more 
completely  gratified  than  mine? 

Suddenly  to  find  myself  with  this  child  of  a  woman 
in  my  house,  confined  to  my  own  bed,  with  such 
prospect  before  her  is  presented  to  my  mind  an  atti- 
tude of  incomparable  bewilderment.  Had  the  infant 
been  placed  in  my  arms  then  and  there  I  should  have 
known  no  better  how  to  behave  or  what  to  do.  For 
the  first  day  I  was  as  one  who  has  lost  his  way  in  an 
elaborate  maze.  Turn  which  path  I  would,  there 
seemed  no  way  out  of  the  business.  I,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  women  was  that  which  is  attained  at  a  re- 
spectful distance,  had  in  one  moment  found  myself, 
as  it  were,  the  expectant  father  of  a  child,  with  all 
his  anxieties,  all  his  apprehensions  and  alarms. 

I  had  to  learn  to  walk  tiptoe  in  my  room.  Moxon 
being  absent  I  was  sent  out  for  medicines,  the  pre- 
scriptions of  which  made  me  grow  hot  as  I  handed 
them  over  the  chemist's  counter.  It  is  at  times  like 
these,  I  found,  that  a  man  realizes  the  utter  little- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  283 

ness  of  his  being.  He  is  no  more  than  a  slave,  at- 
tendant at  the  court  of  the  highest  monarch  in  the 
world. 

A  nurse  was  immediately  sent  for.  Her  depriva- 
tions of  the  previous  days  had  made  Clarissa's  con- 
dition precarious.  She  could  not  be  moved. 

When  I  had  explained  everything  to  Perowne  he 
nodded  his  head,  then  he  scratched  it. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  explain  it  to  the  nurse?  " 
he  asked.  "  Some  of  these  women  are  touchy  crea- 
tures. They  have  their  ideas  of  babies  born  out  of 
wedlock." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  'd  make  it  uncomfort- 
able for  Clarissa  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Of  course,  you  need  not  explain  anything,"  he 
replied.  "  There 's  no  essential  reason  why  you 
should.  Let  her  suspect  if  she  likes." 

"And  show  her  suspicions!  My  Lordl  You 
ought  to  know  the  judgment  of  a  virtuous  woman 
who  barely  suspects  her  sister  of  folly.  Do  you  think 
I  'd  let  that  poor  child  suffer  all  the  thousand  little 
stings  and  arrows  from  the  tongue  of  a  woman  who 
imagines  her  sex  has  been  outraged?  You  know 
what  she  'd  say.  You  JNLiow  the  way  she  'd  say  it. 
Never  with  a  word.  No  —  by  Jove  —  if  she  says 
Mrs.  Bellairs  to  me,  I  '11  say  Mrs.  Bellairs  to  her." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  away.  I  now; 
almost  believe  he  has  guessed  nothing.  And  how 
easily  would  a  woman  have  known.  It  was  but  poor 
satisfaction,  whatever  way  you  looked  at  it.  But  I 


284  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

was  determined  that  not  the  slightest  measure  of 
reproach  should  ever  reach  Clarissa's  ears.  She  had 
followed  her  Fate.  God  knows  she  has  paid  the 
woman's  utmost  penalty.  I  can  conceive  no  greater 
price.  In  no  man's  reckoning  enters  such  a  sum  of 
atonement  as  this.  He  pays  with  remorse,  with 
shame  and  with  dishonor;  but  what  are  these  beside 
two  living  eyes  that  gaze  and  gaze  and  gaze  into 
your  own  as  long  as  the  days  run  on  from  one  year 
to  another? 

There  came  no  judgment  to  my  mind  of  her.  I 
know  no  man,  and  certainly  no  woman,  who  is  quali- 
fied to  judge  of  another  in  such  an  issue  as  this.  It 
is  the  greatest  law  that  Nature  has  made,  and  God 
—  if  you  would  differentiate  between  them  two  — 
has  laid  down  His  seal  upon  it  in  the  little  village  of 
Bethlehem.  It  may  violate  then  a  million  times  the 
earthly  social  law;  but  who  is  there  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment over  God? 

And  besides  all  this,  it  was  Clarissa.  In  the  heart 
of  me,  I  almost  think  I  thanked  the  bitter  cause  that 
had  sent  her  thither.  It  brought  so  much  that  I  could 
do  for  her,  more  than  I  had  ever  had  the  oppor- 
tunity for  doing  for  any  other  woman  in  the  world. 
Surely  I  had  cause  for  gratitude  there. 

When  the  nurse  arrived  I  was  more  determined 
than  before  that  the  truth  of  Clarissa's  condition 
should  never  be  known.  Nurse  Barham  was  elderly, 
but  unmarried  —  a  woman  of  florid  face  and  thin 
lips,  who,  having  helped  at  the  birth  of  so  many  chil- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  285 

dren,  had  lost  all  proportion  of  romance,  and,  never 
knowing  such  romance  of  her  own,  had  come  to  re- 
gard life  with  bitter  calculation. 

Immediately  after  my  interview  with  her  I  sent  for 
Mrs.  Bullwell  before  they  could  find  opportunity  to 
exchange  their  confidences. 

"  Mrs.  Bullwell,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  know  what  your 
morals  are,  but  that  lady  upstairs  is  my  wife." 

"  Glory,  sir!  "  was  all  she  exclaimed. 

"  If  that 's  an  expression  of  praise,"  said  I,  "  or 
satisfaction,  so  much  the  better.  But  you  under- 
stand it,  don't  you?  To  Nurse  Barham,  to  me,  to 
everybody  in  this  house,  that  lady  is  Mrs.  Bellairs, 
and  if  I  hear  of  your  spreading  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  her  being  anything  else,  we  shall  have  to  find  an- 
other place  for  you." 

She  clasped  her  hands  as  though  she  would  pray  to 
God  that  such  catastrophe  might  never  befall  her. 
Her  moral  sense  came  second,  and  with  an  impulsive 
gesture  she  laid  a  fat,  red  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  But  you  will  marry  the  poor  thing,  won't  you, 
sir?  "  she  begged.  "  You  will  marry  her  when  it 's 
all  over?" 

I  took  hold  of  the  fat,  red  hand.  There  are  not 
many  moments  in  life  when  one  can  do  these  things, 
preserving  that  dignity  we  choose  to  call  essential; 
there  are  not  many  moments,  but,  undoubtedly,  this 
was  one.  I  took  hold  of  the  fat,  red  hand. 

"  I  suppose  that  would  make  you  quite  happy, 
Mrs.  Bullwell,"  I  said. 


286  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  It  would,  sir  —  believe  me,  there  's  no  happiness 
in  this  world,  not  without  you  have  the  marriage- 
lines." 

"  But  once  you  Ve  got  those,"  said  I. 

Her  expression  became  ecstatic  then;  whereupon 
I  gently  let  go  her  hand. 

"  You  'd  be  much  happier  then,  sir,"  said  she. 

11 1  should,"  said  I. 

Taking  it  all  round,  that  was  not  such  a  difficult 
situation.  I  have  passed  through  worse.  It  was 
played  moreover  with  a  woman.  By  no  means  did 
I  relish  so  much  the  thought  of  telling  Moxon  when 
he  returned.  However,  it  had  to  be  done,  and  when 
the  next  day  he  arrived  back  from  Ireland  I  collared 
him  before  even  a  sight  of  Nurse  Barham  was  per- 
mitted him. 

"  Moxon,"  said  I,  "  here  —  in  my  room." 

He  came  obediently  and  I  shut  the  door.  When 
I  turned  round,  every  single  word  I  had  prepared  to 
say  was  gone  out  of  my  head.  And  I  had  made 
it  up  so  excellently,  contriving  Moxon  should  have 
been  spared  all  confusion  and  I  what  little  dignity  I 
liked  to  call  my  own.  But  there  it  was,  the  whole 
elaborate  preparation  had  vanished.  All  that  I  could 
think  of  was  that  I  was  no  longer  sleeping  in  my  own 
bed,  but  in  Moxon's.  It  seemed  more  necessary  then 
to  inform  him  of  that  than  of  anything  else,  and 
somehow  or  other  I  stammered  it  out. 

"  But  it 's  all  right,"  I  added  quickly,  when  I  saw 
the  utter  consternation  in  his  face.  "  It 's  all  right. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  287 

iYou  can  find  a  room  for  me  to-morrow,  somewhere 
near  and  I  '11  sleep  out.  It 's  better  that  I  should 
sleep  out  —  at  least,  I  suppose  it  is.  I  don't  exactly 
know  what  the  husband  would  do  under  these  cir- 
cumstances; I  suppose  he  'd  remain  in  the  house." 

At  that  moment,  when  Moxon's  face  was  such  a 
picture  as  memory  will  make  graphic  to  my  mind  for 
the  rest  of  my  life,  Nurse  Barham  opened  the  door, 
and  in  the  astringent  acid  of  her  voice  she  said: 

"  Mrs.  Bellairs  would  like  to  see  you  for  a  mo- 
ment, sir  —  as  soon  as  you  can  come  up.  It  must 
only  be  for  a  moment." 

I  looked  at  Moxon.  I  know  just  how  I  looked. 
I  meant  to.  He  never  said  a  word;  he  just  watched 
me  as  I  followed  the  nurse  out  of  the  room.  When 
I  reached  the  door  I  turned  back. 

'  You  can  stay  here,  Moxon,"  said  I,  "  in  this 
room  till  I  come  downstairs  again." 

Then  as  I  climbed  up  to  my  bedroom,  all  thoughts 
of  the  difficulties  of  that  situation  went  clean  from 
me.  Clarissa  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  and  I  could  not 
stop  the  beating  of  my  heart.  This  was 'the  first  time 
I  had  seen  her  since  we  had  laid  her  tired  little  head 
on  my  pillow,  when  I  had  left  the  room  with  the 
vision  of  her  closed  eyes  and  the  transparent  white- 
ness of  her  cheeks.  That  vision  had  lasted  with  me 
till  now.  Now  I  was  to  see  her  awake ;  but  her  head 
would  still  be  on  my  pillow. 

At  the  door  I  paused,  partly,  I  confess,  to  control 
the  confusion  of  my  emotions. 


288  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  How  long  may  I  stay?  "  I  whispered. 

"  I  '11  come  back  in  five  minutes,"  the  nurse  replied, 
as  she  opened  the  door.  I  crept  upon  the  tips  of  my 
toes  into  the  room,  and  she  closed  the  door  after  me. 
She  closed  it  far  less  gently  than  I  should  have  done, 
for  at  the  sound  of  it,  Clarissa  raised  her  head  from 
the  pillow.  Directly  she  saw  it  was  me,  she  let  it  fall 
back  again.  Perhaps  it  was  my  fancy,  but  I  think  a 
warm  flush  swept  over  her  cheeks.  Doubtless  she 
was  timid;  but  she  could  not  have  been  so  timid  as 
was  I.  I  crept  quietly  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  it 
seemed  then,  in  that  still  room,  as  though  my  heart, 
beating,  were  the  only  thing  that  moved  or  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Are  you  better?  "  I  whispered. 

My  body  found  a  chair  on  which  to  seat  itself. 

At  last  I  saw  two  eyes,  full  of  remorse,  looking  at 
me  from  out  of  a  little  window  made  up  by  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"  Will  you  —  will  you  ever  forgive  me?  "  she  said, 
faintly. 

"  Forgive  what?  "  said  I.  "  You  must  n't  talk  like 
that.  Are  you  worrying  yourself  all  these  hours  with 
the  idea  that  you  Ve  got  to  find  forgiveness?  You  '11 
never  get  well  that  way.  Besides,  what  is  there  to 
forgive?  " 

"  I  'm  in  your  bed,"  she  whispered.  '  Where  do 
you  sleep?  " 

"  Is  that  all !  "  said  I,  laughing.  "  Why,  do  you 
imagine  that  I  'm  one  of  those  fussy  beggars  who 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  289 

can't  turn  in  anywhere  but  to  their  own  bed  and  their 
own  pillow?    It  is  comfortable  though;   is  n't  it?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  and  squeezed  down  under  the 
clothes.  How  could  that  devil  ever  have  left  her ! 

"  But  that 's  not  all,"  she  continued,  presently, 
from  the  little  hive  of  bedclothes  within  which  she 
lay  curled;  "that's  not  all.  You  haven't  heard 
what  the  nurse  calls  me." 

"  I  have  indeed,"  said  I,  "  but  don't  be  angry  with 
me  for  that.  It  could  n't  be  helped.  It  was  the  only 
way.  I  did  it  because  of  the  nurse.  I  think  she  's 
a  silly  woman.  At  any  rate,  she  would  n't  have 
understood.  It 's  a  false  position  for  you  I  know. 
But  you  must  n't  be  angry  with  me.  I  did  it  for  the 
best." 

I  suppose  her  illness  had  made  her  weak;  but 
even  then  I  cannot  quite  understand  it,  for  when  I 
said  that  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows  and  all 
her  body  shook  with  weeping.  Of  course,  the  nurse 
came  in  at  that  moment.  I  might  have  expected  it. 
I  believe  they  have  an  uncanny  way  of  knowing  when 
they  are  not  wanted;  moreover,  if  they  see  the  faint- 
est sign  of  affection  they  will  put  a  stop  to  it.  No 
doubt  they  are  quite  right.  They  hate  it.  This 
creature  must  have  hated  it  more  than  most,  for 
when  she  found  Clarissa  crying  she  turned  on  me  in 
the  severest  contempt. 

'  Why  have  you  been  making  her  cry?  "  she  said. 
"  Surely  she  's  weak  enough  without  distressing  her 
like  that!" 


290  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Upon  my  soul  I  felt  a  fool.  The  man  who  is 
swayed  between  two  emotions  is  bound  to  fall  be- 
tween them  and  look  ridiculous.  I  wanted  to  turn 
the  detestable  woman  out  of  the  house  straight  away. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Clarissa  crying  her 
heart  out,  and  I  knew  well  enough  it  was  bad  for 
her. 

"  Will  you  kindly  go  now?  "  she  continued.  "  I 
can't  have  my  patient  unset  like  this." 

I  went,  as  quietly  too  as  I  had  come.  But  when  I 
got  downstairs  I  could  have  cheerfully  kicked  any- 
thing that  came  in  my  way.  It  was  a  bad  prospect 
for  Moxon.  I  nearly  slammed  the  door  as  I  came 
in,  but  remembered  just  in  time.  At  a  violent  strain 
I  caught  it  just  before  it  closed. 

Things  cut  both  ways  in  life.  At  least  that  is  what 
I  find.  This  little  burst  of  irritation  went  far 
towards  making  it  easier  for  me  to  tell  Moxon.  I 
flung  the  information  at  him  then. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  when  I  had  finished,  "  if  this  sort 
of  establishment  has  become  one  with  which  you  have 
no  desire  to  be  connected,  don't  hesitate  to  say  so. 
I  don't  know  when  the  child  will  be  born  —  nobody 
knows.  It's  supposed  to  be  in  three  months'  time; 
but  however  long  it  is,  if  it  were  the  whole  nine 
months,  Miss  Fawdry  would  still  stay  here  under 
my  protection  till  it  was  over.  To  begin  with,  she  's 
ill.  She  can't  be  moved.  And  when  she  's  well  again 
the  position  will  be  no  different.  I  tell  you  this 
plainly,  because  I  don't  want  there  to  be  any  mis- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  291 

understanding.  Of  course,  when  she  's  well  again 
she  may  say  that  she  does  n't  wish  to  stay.  That  '11 
be  a  different  matter.  I  shall  do  my  best  to  per- 
suade her,  and  so  long  as  she  's  here  under  these  cir- 
cumstances she  's  Mrs.  Bellairs.  Now,  you  Ve  heard 
this,  if  you  don't  want  to  stay  on  I  'd  sooner  you 
said  so.  I  know  your  ideas  about  this  sort  of  thing. 
You  remember  my  asking  you  that  night  last  April, 
when  I  sent  you  to  fetch  a  taxi  for  that  woman  who 
was  drenched  with  rain,  you  remember  my  asking 
you  if  you  would  refuse  to  help  a  woman  in  trouble." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  remember  my  answer,  sir?  " 

"Well,"  —  upon  my  soul,  for  the  minute,  it 
had  gone  clean  out  of  my  mind — "I  don't  re- 
member the  exact  words,"  said  I.  "  I  fancy  you 
disapproved." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  think  I  remarked  that  to 
my  knowledge  I  had  n't  said  nothing  about  no 
woman." 

I  suppose  if  two  negatives  make  an  affirmative, 
one  may  take  it  that  three  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
progression  revert  to  the  former  order  of  things. 
He  had  said  nothing  about  a  woman.  I  did  remem- 
ber that.  I  remembered  also  how  that  tactful  ob- 
servation had  nonplussed  me.  It  had  much  the  same 
effect  now.  I  felt  that  I  was  losing  ground,  and  dig- 
nity with  it  too;  for  dignity,  after  all,  is  only  the 
ground  you  stand  upon.  There  was  only  one  thing 
to  do,  to  return  as  quickly  as  possible  to  what  I  had 
been  saying. 


292  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"  Well,  you  see  the  situation,"  said  I ;  "if  you 
wish  to  get  another  place,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  give 
you  the  best  possible  recommendation." 

Of  course,  I  could  see  that  it  was  a  terrible  shock 
to  him.  To  any  man  who  would  preserve  an  attitude 
of  disapproval  towards  all  women,  it  would  be  an 
uncomfortable  position  in  which  to  find  himself.  I 
sympathized  with  him  sincerely,  but  there  was  no 
help  for  it.  I  had  to  put  it  that  way  for  his  own 
sake,  though  I  knew  well  what  his  answer  would  be. 
He  no  more  disapproves  of  women  than  do  I.  It  is 
only  this  attitude  which  he  adopts  as  a  counterblast 
for  the  want  of  approval  in  women  for  him.  Even 
Mrs.  Bullwell  he  treats  with  a  stern  aloofness  of 
manner,  though  I  have  known  him  take  a  vase  of 
daffodils  which  I  had  condemned  as  faded  and  place 
them  in  her  kitchen.  He  was  careful  enough  to  tell 
her  that  it  was  by  my  instructions.  She  thanked  me 
for  them  herself,  but  I  said  nothing  to  him.  And 
now  to  have  to  accept  the  circumstance  of  a  woman 
in  the  house,  to  be  compelled  to  speak  of  her  as  Mrs. 
Bellairs,  to  know  that  she  was  occupying  my  bed, 
that  in  the  near  future  she  would  be  performing  that 
most  terrible  of  all  functions  —  which  I  have  heard 
him  thank  God  was  left  only  to  women  to  do  —  the 
bringing  of  a  child  into  the  world;  to  be  driven  to 
all  this  and  still  to  maintain  his  dignity  as  a  man  who 
has  avowed  his  superior  toleration  of  the  whole  sex 
—  it  was  a  bad  business  for  Moxon.  He  did  not 
like  the  look  of  it  at  all. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  293 

But  I  had  given  him  the  only  loophole  for  escape. 
To  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  could  not  possibly  have 
done  without  him,  and  putting  it  this  way,  laying 
myself  under  an  obligation  to  him  should  he  con- 
sent to  remain,  was  the  only  method  I  could  devise 
on  the  moment  for  keeping  him  with  me. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  decide?  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  sir,"  and  he  paused.  It  is  this  way  he 
gathers  weight  for  his  utterances.  "  I  think  I  know 
my  place.  I  should  n't  question  anything  you  do, 
sir,  not  if  I  was  to  be  in  your  service  for  a  hundred 
years." 

'  That  means  you  're  going  to  question  it  now," 
said  I. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  I  was  only  going  to  say  that 
you  're  the  best  judge  of  what  you  do." 

'  When  any  one  says  that,"  I  observed,  "  they 
mean  you  are  the  very  worst  judge  possible.  Go  on. 
It 's  extremely  interesting  to  hear  what  you  say  and 
know  what  you  mean.  I  am  behaving  extremely  in- 
judiciously —  well  ?  " 

This  was  far  too  much  for  Moxon.  To  have  all 
his  tactful  diplomacy  shorn  of  its  tinsel  wrappings 
and  before  his  very  eyes  was  more  than  he  could 
bear.  His  wit,  moreover,  was  not  equal  to  it.  At 
last  I  had  nonplussed  him.  His  last  effort  was 
merely  a  tour  de  force;  but  it  was  too  good  for  me. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go,  sir?  "  said  he. 

Well,  I  had  to  throw  up  my  hand  then.  In  a  mat- 
ter of  this  kind  some  one  or  the  other  has  to  make 


294  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

a  sacrifice  of  dignity.  I  have  never  been  engaged  in 
such  an  encounter  where  both  retained  it  till  the  end. 

"  Want  you  to  go,"  said  I.  "  Upon  my  soul,  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you." 

A  big  smile  of  gratitude  spread  all  over  his  face. 
It  was  as  good  as  if  he  had  held  out  his  hand,  and 
far  more  respectful. 

"  Well,  if  there 's  anything  I  can  do  for  Mrs. 
Bellairs,  sir —  " 

Of  course,  this  was  overdoing  it.  He  meant  well, 
but  you  can  see  yourself  that  it  was  overdoing  it. 
Accordingly,  he  got  no  more  than  he  deserved. 
I  sent  him  out  to  the  chemist  with  an  awful 
prescription. 


CHAPTER   X 

I  BELIEVE  one  can  disarm  even  Destiny.  God 
knows  what  might  not  have  happened  had  that  child 
been  born  in  such  surroundings  as  Clarissa  found 
herself  before  she  came  to  me.  You  may  be  sure  the 
poor  little  mite  would  have  been  sorely  in  the  way. 
God  knows  what  might  not  have  happened. 

But  so  far  as  I  was  concerned  with  Clarissa,  it  was 
welcome.  It  would  give  her  something  to  live  for 
who  had  so  little  of  her  own.  I  was  prepared  to 
do  my  best  that  it  should  not  be  ushered  into  a  world 
which  shuddered  at  its  coming. 

Once  only  in  the  few  times  that  I  saw  her  Clarissa 
spoke  of  it. 

"  It  will  be  so  terrible  for  you,"  she  said. 

"Terrible?  "said  I.  "But  why?  It 's  your  child. 
By  no  right  or  consideration  is  it  his.  You  Ve  suf- 
fered for  it.  That 's  the  only  right  of  possession.  It 
won't  be  terrible  at  all.  I  just  think  of  it  as  your 
child.  He  does  n't  enter  my  head." 

That  was  a  lie,  but  worth  telling,  since  it  made 
her  mind  the  easier.  He  does  enter  into  my  thoughts. 
I  burn  hot  with  foolish  anger  sometimes  when  I  think 
of  him.  But  all  this  was  disarming  Destiny,  and 
Destiny  disarmed  does  strange  and  unexpected  things. 


296  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

Perowne  came  late  one  night  at  a  summons  from 
the  nurse.  I  heard  the  door  of  Clarissa's  bedroom 
open  and  close  many  times  that  night.  All  through 
the  hours  I  lay  awake  listening,  revolving  in  my  mind 
a  thousand  meanings  of  what  it  could  be.  At  last  I 
could  bear  the  vague  speculation  of  it  no  longer.  I 
crept  out  of  my  room  and  button-holed  Perowne  as 
he  came  downstairs. 

"  I  can't  stand  this,"  said  I.    "  What  is  it?  " 

"  The  child,"  said  he. 

"Born?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  Dead." 

Dead?  It  meant  nothing  to  me.  I  knew  then  it 
had  never  held  life  at  all  in  my  mind.  That  it  was 
still-born  seemed  to  me  then  the  only  natural  thing 
that  could  happen. 

"  It  was  what  I  expected,"  he  added,  "  after  the 
condition  we  found  her  in  when  she  first  came  here. 
She  was  half-starved." 

"  How  is  she  now?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  very  lively.  She  '11  get  all  right  again 
though,  if  she  takes  it  quietly." 

So  we  crept  silently  through  the  month  of  March 
to  that  glorious  First  of  April,  when  the  whole  world 
awakes  to  the  great  gladness  of  its  folly.  For  the 
first  two  weeks  of  that  month  of  March  I  was  not 
permitted  to  see  her.  Then  I  would  spend  my  morn- 
ings in  the  park,  intent  no  longer  upon  watching  the 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  297 

romance  of  others,  but  contemplating  in  long  silences 
the  wonderful  possibilities  of  my  own.  What  would 
it  be  when  she  was  well  again?  All  hope  that  I 
might  win  her  for  myself  I  counted  beyond  the  ut- 
most probability.  Such  disfigurement  as  is  mine, 
once  a  woman  has  expressed  her  horror  of  it,  is  not 
forgotten  so  easily  as  that.  So  at  least  it  seemed 
to  me.  And  as  I  sat  or  walked  in  the  park,  journey- 
ing so  far  sometimes  as  the  gardens  in  Kensington 
to  see  the  crocuses  and  the  young  tulips  rising  above 
the  earth,  I  thought  it  all  out,  making  in  my  imagina- 
tion the  future  I  would  have  for  her. 

I  built  a  cottage  then  in  the  country  —  an  old- 
fashioned  place  standing  far  back  from  the  road, 
with  a  tiny  orchard  of  gnarled  apple  trees  and  a 
garden  where  all  the  sweet  peas  in  the  world  could 
grow  in  such  profusion  as  would  shame  even  Cruik- 
shank  himself.  It  should  be  within  fifty  miles  of  Lon- 
don, so  that  whenever  she  needed  me  I  could  easily 
reach  her.  For  a  few  hundred  pounds  the  freehold 
of  a  place  like  that  could  be  bought,  and  it  should  be 
her  very  own.  The  little  that  it  would  cost  for  her 
to  live  there,  she  would  surely  accept  at  my  hands. 

"  She  's  at  my  mercy,"  I  told  myself,  cheerfully. 
"  Can  she  possibly  want  anything  better  than  that?  " 

There  were  other  schemes  too.  I  spent  a  glorious 
morning  devising  them.  But  none  pleased  me  better 
than  this,  and  I  longed  for  the  moment  when  I 
might  tell  her  of  it. 

In  the  afternoons  of  that  fortnight  I  wrote  long 


298  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

letters  to  Bellwattle,  telling  her  everything,  leading 
up  slowly  by  the  most  gradual  degrees  to  that  mo- 
ment when  I  could  ask  for  my  gift  to  be  returned  to 
me.  It  is  a  mean  thing  to  do,  to  give  a  thing  and 
take  a  thing.  Surely  there  is  some  condemnatory 
couplet  which  treats  of  such  instability  as  this. 
"Give  a  thing  and  take  a  thing — " 

I  have  long  forgotten  how  it  goes.  But  surely, 
with  a  lonely  man  and  his  dog  it  were  excusable. 
I  had  word  from  her  that  he  was  happy  enough  when 
out  on  the  cliffs  alone  with  her,  where  there  was  ever 
the  great  adventure  of  the  chase.  But  she  hinted 
sometimes  how  in  the  long  evenings  he  would  sit 
thoughtfully  before  the  fire  taking  no  notice  of  any 
word  that  was  said  to  him.  I  like  to  think  it  was 
then  that  he  thought  of  me. 

At  length  came  that  morning  when  the  nurse  told 
me  Clarissa  was  up  in  her  room,  sitting  before  the 
fire,  and  that  I  might  take  my  tea  with  her  in  the 
afternoon. 

Before  breakfast  then  Moxon  and  I  went  to 
Covent  Garden. 

"  I  just  want  to  get  a  few  flowers,"  said  I. 

We  staggered  back  under  the  weight  of  those 
flowers.  Freezias,  tulips  —  even  lilac  there  was. 
Moxon's  face  grew  scarlet  among  the  yellow  tulips 
as  he  bore  them  bravely  homeward.  I  sent  them  up 
to  Clarissa's  room  before  me.  When  at  last  I 
knocked  at  the  door  and  was  admitted,  I  found  her 
with  her  face  buried  in  a  great  bowl  of  flowers,  and 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  299 

her  eyes  were  closed.  If  you  would  see  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  spring,  your  eyes  must  be  closed. 
Nurse  Barham  was  not  in  the  room,  so  I  just  stood 
by  waiting  till  she  should  open  them. 

Presently  she  raised  her  head.  The  look  in  her 
eyes  was  as  though  the  spring  still  filled  them,  and 
out  went  my  heart  quickly  beating  to  it.  I  would 
have  given  much  had  that  glance  been  meant  for  me. 
That  in  some  measure  I  had  been  the  cause  of  it  was 
good  enough  to  know. 

"  When  you  're  able  to  get  out  again,"  said  I, 
"  you  '11  find  everything  like  that  in  the  country." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  in  the  country.  I  sup- 
pose all  the  banks  in  Ballysheen  now  are  filled  with 
primroses." 

"  No  doubt  they  Ve  opened  their  current  account," 
said  I.  Then  I  sat  down  and  looked  closely  at  her 
face.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  I  went  on,  "  that 
you  're  regretting  Ballysheen  now?  " 

"  Seeing  a  little  of  Ballysheen  was  better  than  see- 
ing a  lot  of  London,"  she  admitted.  "  You  don't 
know  how  often  I  Ve  tossed  and  turned,  lying  awake 
in  that  bed,  thinking  how  right  you  were.  Oh  — 
you  were  right!  " 

"When?" 

"All  that  you  said  to  me  on  the  cliff  that  day  — 
all  about  everything  —  about  forgetting  that  you 
lived  —  about  remembering  that  you  lived.  I  Ve 
been  trying  so  hard  to  forget,"  she  sighed,  deeply, 
"  and  I  'm  so  tired  of  trying.  If  you  had  n't  taken 


300  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

care  of  me,  I  should  have  given  up  trying.  Perhaps 
that  would  have  been  best  too.  I  sometimes  think  it 
would  have  been  much  the  best." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  the  country  again,"  I  said. 
"  You  won't  be  sorry  then.  The  tulips  are  up  in 
Kensington  Gardens  —  all  the  almond  trees  are  pink. 
You  wait  till  you  get  up  —  wait,  too,  till  you  Ve 
heard  what  I  Ve  got  to  suggest." 

She  glanced  at  me  quickly. 

"  I  can't  take  anything  more  from  you,"  she  began. 

"  You  can  wait,"  said  I,  "  till  you  hear  what  I  Ve 
got  to  say.  Shall  we  have  tea  now  or  afterwards?  " 

"  Afterwards.  Perhaps  you  want  your  tea, 
though." 

"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  I  replied,  "  every- 
thing can  wait." 

"Well,  then  — goon." 

For  a  moment  I  wondered  whether  we  had  better 
not  have  tea,  whether  it  were  not  wiser  to  wait  until 
that  light  of  excitement  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes. 
When  again  she  begged  me  go  on,  I  forgot  about  it; 
I  was  excited  myself.  For  a  whole  two  weeks  I  had 
pictured  this  moment  of  telling  her.  The  best  of  us 
are  inconsiderate  when  it  comes  to  such  a  pass  as 
this.  I  was  going  to  show  her  my  little  castle  in 
Spain,  and  it  is  these  habitations  of  which  we  are 
proudest.  With  my  own  hands,  as  I  sat  in  the  park 
those  mornings,  I  had  built  that  little  Tudor  cottage 
with  its  apple  orchard,  where  the  sheep  grazed  in 
and  out  between  the  white-washed  trunks.  With 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  301 

my  own  hands  I  had  laid  the  old  garden,  planting  it 
with  all  those  old  flowers  that  will  remain  in  every 
garden  so  long  as  England  is  what  she  is.  Is  there 
any  wonder  I  was  proud  of  it  —  any  wonder  that 
I  wanted  to  tell  her  of  it  all  just  so  fast  as  I  could? 

She  listened  with  eyes  round  in  wonder.  Some- 
times her  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped,  and  she 
beat  her  little  hands  about  like  a  child  who  has  some- 
thing good  to  eat. 

*  There  are  hundreds  of  places  like  that  in  Kent," 
said  I,  when  I  had  finished.  "  Kent  is  full  of  them; 
and  when  the  apple  blossom  is  out  and  lambs  are  in 
the  orchard,  I  can  tell  you  you  want  to  live  then. 
You  want  to  be  up  with  the  sun  lest  you  should  miss 
an  hour  of  it.  I  Ve  been  all  round  the  world,  but 
I  Ve  never  seen  anything  to  touch  an  apple  orchard 
in  Kent,  or  any  English  meadow  in  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer. I  know  nothing  like  it  —  I  know  nothing  equal 
to  it,  unless  it  is  those  cliffs  at  Ballysheen  when  the 
gorse  and  the  heather  are  out  and  the  whole  place 
throbs  with  the  humming  of  bees.  That,  perhaps,  is 
as  good.  But  it 's  too  far  away.  I  want  you  to  have 
a  place  where,  if  ever  you  need  me,  you  can  send  for 
me  at  a  moment's  notice.  There  would  be  times, 
perhaps,  when  you  might  feel  lonely." 

She  had  been  looking  down  into  the  fire,  interlac- 
ing her  fingers,  doing  and  undoing  them  as  in  an  idle 
moment,  a  child  plaits  rushes  in  the  silent  meadows. 
But  when  I  said  she  might  feel  lonely,  she  looked  up 
quickly  to  my  face. 


302  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

"Did  you  mean  to  go  alone?"  she  asked,  "to 
live  there  —  quite  alone?" 

"  There  would  be  some  one  to  help  you  look  after 
it,"  said  I. 

"  Yes  —  but  —  otherwise,  alone." 

"  Who  else  is  there  that  you  know?  "  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  one?" 

"  I  don't  know  anybody." 

"  But  if  you  feel  what  you  do  about  the  country," 
said  I,  "  I  don't  think  you  'd  be  lonely.  And  if  ever 
you  wanted  me  —  at  any  time  —  I  could  come  down. 
There  'd  be  some  inn  at  the  village  where  I  could 
put  up." 

"  Where  you  could  put  up?  " 

"  Yes  —  where  I  could  sleep." 

She  gazed  at  me  quite  strangely,  and  so  direct  were 
her  eyes  that  I  remember  wondering  was  she  forget- 
ting how  repulsive  I  was.  I  believe  that  thought 
would  have  grown  upon  me.  I  believe,  had  she 
looked  at  me  thus  a  moment  longer,  I  should  have 
taken  the  bull  of  fortune  by  the  horns.  I  should  have 
tried  my  luck,  risking  that  refusal  which  I  believed  to 
be  inevitable,  whereby  it  would  have  been  thrown 
back  at  me  once  more  the  eternal  knowledge  of  my- 
self. But  at  that  moment  two  things  occurred.  I, 
who  will  have  no  mirror  in  my  room,  was  suddenly 
confronted  by  my  reflection  in  a  little  handglass  of 
Clarissa's  that  leant  against  the  back  of  an  empty 
chair.  She  had  been  arranging  herself,  no  doubt,  be- 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  303 

fore  I  came  into  the  room ;  for  it  is  ever  the  way  with 
women  that  they  must  appear  at  their  best,  even  to 
those  whom  least  it  should  concern. 

But  it  was  not  that  which  kept  back  the  words  then 
faltering  on  my  lips.  Clarissa's  lip  had  trembled. 
Before  another  moment  had  passed  she  was  in  tears. 
It  was  not  only  weakness  this  time.  Some  spirit  of 
courage  had  broken  within  her.  She  had  given  way. 

Amazed  though  I  was,  I  let  her  cry  awhile  before 
I  questioned  her;  then,  leaning  nearer,  I  begged  her 
tell  me  what  it  was. 

"I  —  I  could  n't  be  there  alone,"  she  faltered.  "  I 
—  I  could  n't  bear  it  alone.  Oh  —  I  must  have  a 
little  pride!  I  can't  take  anything  more  from  you. 
You  have  given  me  so  much  as  it  is.  I  want  to  go 
home.  I  want  to  go  back  to  Dominica.  I  wish  to 
God  I  'd  gone  when  you  told  me  to  last  year.  I 
should  have  been  spared  all  this.  You  would  have 
been  spared  it,  too.  Let  me  go  back  to  Dominica." 

*  You  'd  sooner  that,"  said  I,  "  than  the  castle  in 
Spain  —  the  cottage  in  Kent?  " 

*  Yes  —  I  could  n't  be  there  alone.    Oh  —  I  know 
what  a  disgrace  I  am.    Do  let  me  go." 

'  You  're  sure  of  what  you  say?  "  I  repeated. 
'  Yes  —  yes  —  quite  sure." 
I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  rose  to  my  feet. 
"  God  who  made  women,"  said  I,  "  must  under- 
stand 'em.    You  shall  go  back  to  Dominica," 
And  I  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IT  was  a  day  early  in  the  month  of  May  when  I 
said  good-bye  to  Clarissa.  The  next  day  following 
that  afternoon  when  she  had  expressed  her  wish  to  go 
home,  I  went  away  myself,  leaving  her  in  the  care  of 
Moxon  with  instructions  that  when  she  was  ready  to 
return  to  Dominica  I  should  be  sent  for.  How  could 
I  have  stayed  on  there  in  the  house,  seeing  her  pos- 
sibly every  day,  knowing  that  each  hour  was  draw- 
ing nearer  to  that  moment  when  my  life  was  to  be 
empty  once  more?  It  was  better  to  train  myself  to 
the  knowledge  of  it  at  once,  wherefore  I  went  away 
seeking  the  loneliness  that  was  bound  to  come. 

I  sometimes  think  she  felt  my  absence  a  little  dur- 
ing her  convalescence;  but  there  is  more  hope  than 
belief  in  the  thought. 

We  were  very  silent  as  we  drove  to  the  station. 
What,  indeed,  was  there  to  say?  I  find  that  it  is 
not  only  sufficient  that  a  woman  should  come  to  you 
in  trouble,  for  when  she  goes,  she  leaves  a  whole 
world  of  trouble  behind  her.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
taken  it  for  granted  in  my  mind  that  if  she  came, 
she  would  stay.  It  can  only  be  then  that  I  am  utterly 
ignorant  of  women.  How  indeed  should  I  be 
otherwise? 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  305 

I  did  my  best,  but  so  hopelessly  failed  to  under- 
stand her  tears  when,  just  before  the  train  started, 
she  broke  down  completely  and  wept. 

"  But  you  're  going  home,"  said  I,  "  you  're  doing 
the  thing  you  have  chosen  to  be  best." 

Yet  still  she  cried  and  muttered  brokenly  of  the 
kindness  I  had  shown  her. 

"  No  one  in  the  world  could  have  been  so  kind," 
she  said. 

"  It 's  been  the  best  time  of  my  life,"  I  replied. 
"  There  have  even  been  moments  when  I  Ve  thanked 
God  for  your  troubles  since,  in  a  way,  I  was  able  to 
bear  them." 

At  that  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  for 
some  moments  I  could  get  no  word  from  her  at  all. 
She  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  were  breaking  and 
I  sat  there  on  the  seat  opposite  to  her  wondering 
why  God  had  made  creatures  so  incomprehensible  as 
women.  She  wanted  of  her  own  accord  to  return  to 
Dominica,  yet  here  she  was  at  her  departure,  crying 
as  though  a  very  world  of  desolation  was  before  her. 
It  was  more  than  I  could  understand. 

I  had  to  leave  the  carriage  at  last.  She  still  sat 
there  weeping,  with  the  bundle  of  picture  papers 
which  I  had  bought  lying  on  her  lap.  It  was  only 
as  the  train  began  to  move  out  of  the  station  that 
she  threw  them  on  to  the  seat  beside  her  and,  rising 
impulsively  to  her  feet,  she  leant  out  of  the  window. 

'  Why,"  she  whispered  excitedly,  "  why  have  you 
been  so  good  to  me?  " 


306  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

I  could  have  laughed  at  that.  For  surely  she  must 
have  guessed  by  this;  but  thank  God  a  sense  of  the 
ludicrous  saved  me  from  telling  her  then  that  I  loved 
her.  Imagine  the  declaration  of  a  lover,  running  by 
the  side  of  the  carriage  as  a  train  steamed  out  of 
the  station. 

"  God  bless  you,"  was  all  I  said  and  for  a  long 
while  I  stood  watching  that  little  white  face  of  hers 
as  she  leant  out  of  her  carriage  window.  Suddenly 
then,  so  quickly  as  if  some  one  had  drawn  her  back 
within,  she  disappeared.  At  that  I  turned  away  and 
walked  home  alone. 

It  was  two  days  later  that  Moxon  brought  me  a 
telegram  to  my  room. 

"  Come  over  at  once,"  it  read,  "  most  important 
that  I  should  see  you."  And  it  was  signed  Bellwattle. 

"  Is  the  boy  waiting  for  an  answer  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Give  me  a  form  then." 

He  brought  it  to  me. 

"  Coming,"  I  wrote  and  handed  it  back  to  him. 
"  Pack  my  things,"  said  I,  "  I  'm  off  to  Ireland  this 
evening." 

I  acted  with  as  little  hesitation  as  that,  for  I  more 
than  welcomed  the  thought  of  leaving  London. 
There  was  beading  of  green  through  all  that  black 
lace-work  of  the  trees,  and  often  I  had  felt  the 
yearning  that  must  come  to  every  one  of  us,  that  call- 
ing of  the  land,  when  one's  eyes  need  to  be  filled 
with  the  broad  stretches,  when  one's  feet  long  for 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  307 

the  springy  turf  and  all  one's  heart  aches  for  the 
great  freedom  of  God's  heaven  above  one's  head. 
And  beside  all  that,  I  knew  I  should  soon  be  seeing 
Dandy  once  more. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  count  the  memories  that 
filled  my  mind  when  again  I  mounted  Quin's  car  and 
set  out  upon  that  nine-mile  journey  from  Youghal 
to  Ballysheen.  Every  corner  of  the  road  brought 
back  to  my  remembrance  the  day  when  I  had  arrived, 
the  day  also  when  I  had  gone  back  to  London  feel- 
ing how  utterly  the  madness  of  my  mission  had 
failed. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  spoke  a  word  to  Quin 
who,  though  the  day  was  fine  enough,  drove  just 
as  ever  with  that  fixed  despondency  of  expression  in 
his  face. 

"  Are  you  never  cheerful,"  said  I  at  last,  "  not 
even  on  a  day  like  this?  " 

He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment. 
'What  would  I  be  cheerful  about?"  he  asked. 

"  Good  God,  man !  "  said  I ;  "  look  all  round 
you." 

"  What  for?  "said  he. 

"  For  everything.     God  's  in  His  heaven." 

"  He  is  indeed,"  said  Quin.  "  And  as  far  as  this 
country  's  concerned  I  'm  afraid  't  is  the  way  He  '11 
stay  there." 

I  laughed  at  that;  but  his  face  had  no  sign  of 
mirth  in  it. 

'  They  're  goin'  to  give  us  Home  Rule,"  he  con- 


308  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

tinued.  "  Shure,  Glory  be  to  God,  what  '11  we  be 
doin'  rulin'  ourselves  whin  Tim  Burke  and  Jim 
Reilly  were  fightin'  yesterday  at  the  council  meeting 
as  to  whether  the  new  lamp-post  in  Dorgan  Street 
should  be  put  opposite  Jim  Reilly's  house  or  Tim 
Burke's?" 

"  And  which  did  they  decide?  "  I  asked. 

"  Shure,  they  did  n't  decide  at  all.  Why  would 
they?  They  fought  like  two  creatures  from  hell  till 
Michaer  Mahony  got  up  and  said  the  only  way  to 
settle  it  was  to  have  no  lamp-post  at  all.  'T  was 
the  judgment  av  Solomon,  he  said  —  but  yirrah, 
what  the  divil  's  the  judgment  of  Solomon  to  do  with 
Dorgan  Street?  Shure,  I  dunno  know  who  Solomon 
was.  He  might  have  been  a  Jew  by  the  sounds  av 
him.  'T  is  Dorgan  Street  anyways  that  '11  have  no 
lamp-post  and  't  is  as  dark  there  in  that  street  on  a 
night  ye  could  n't  see  yeer  own  fisht  to  shtrike  a  man 
with.  Ye  could  not.  An'  if  they  come  to  do  with 
the  land  as  they  did  with  Dorgan  Street,  I  want  to 
know  what  the  hell  is  Home  Rule  goin'  to  be  to  us 
thin?" 

"  But,  good  heavens !  "  said  I.  "  You  Ve  been 
crying  for  Home  Rule  for  more  than  a  century !  " 

"  We  have  indeed,"  said  he,  "  but  God  help  us, 
we  never  expected  to  get  ut.  An'  now  they  're 
talkin'  of  Johnnie  Redmond,  the  hero.  Faith,  the 
only  heroes  in  Ireland  are  the  min  like  Emmet,  who 
died  for  his  country,  and  did  n't  get  what  he  wanted 
even  then.  Shure,  Johnnie  Redmond  is  no  hero. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  309 

He 's  a  prosperous  man.  He  '11  be  wearin'  a 
diamond  shtud  in  his  shirt  front  before  long,  and 
dhrivin'  down  Pathrick  Street  in  Cork  in  a  carriage 
and  pair  on  a  Sathurday  afternoon  for  the  people  to 
look  at  him.  Shure,  that 's  no  hero.  'T  is  he  '11 
have  the  lamp-post  in  front  of  his  house  if  there  are 
any  goin'.  He  will  indeed." 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said  I,  when  I  had 
done  with  laughing,  "  that  if  they  give  you  Home 
Rule  you  '11  have  nothing  to  complain  about,  and 
this  '11  be  a  dead  country." 

"  I  dunno  will  ut  be  a  dead  country,"  he  replied. 

'  Ye  would  n't  have  called  ut  a  dead  country  if  ye  'd 

heard  what  Jim  Reilly  said  to  Tim  Burke  at  the  last 

council  meetin'.    An'  it  '11  all  be  just  about  as  alive 

as  that." 

"  What  did  he  say?  " 

"  I  should  have  to  be  very  hot  in  anger  to  repeat 
ut,"  said  he. 

So  as  I  drove  again  from  Youghal  to  Ballysheen  I 
received  my  second  lesson  in  this  glorious  sad  coun- 
try. Dead  or  alive  I  was  glad  to  be  back  in  it.  Even 
those  few  weeks  the  year  before  had  been  long 
enough  to  plant  the  call  of  it  in  my  heart.  For  there 
is  something  in  Ireland  to  those  who  know  it  well, 
which  cries  to  you  in  the  long  nights  and,  in  the  sum- 
mer days,  holds  out  its  arms  mutely  appealing  to 
you  to  return.  Indeed,  I  was  glad  to  be  back,  and 
when  at  the  gateway  I  was  met  by  Dandy  and  Bell- 
wattle  I  knew  only  of  one  other  thing  I  could  have 


3io  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

wished  more  earnestly  to  see.  Even  that  I  forgot 
while  Bellwattle  was  gripping  my  hand  and  Dandy 
was  leaping  wildly  by  my  side. 

"  We  're  so  glad  to  have  you  back,"  said  she. 
"  Look  at  him." 

She  pointed  to  Dandy,  who  stood  upon  his  hind 
legs,  rending  the  air  with  hilarious  laughter. 

"  Hooray!  hooray!  "  he  yelled,  and  had  he  worn 
a  thousand  hats  on  his  head  he  would  have  flung 
them  all  up  in  the  air  at  once.  A  welcome  like  that 
is  worth  coming  many  miles  for.  Even  Cruikshank 
in  his  quiet  way  was  exuberant  in  spirits. 

"  Good  man  I  "  he  kept  saying.  "  Good  man." 
As  though  I  had  accomplished  some  feat  of  virtue 
by  my  arrival. 

But  it  was  not  till  we  sat  down  to  lunch  that  I 
asked  what  had  been  the  meaning  of  that  important 
telegram. 

'*  Why  was  it  most  important  that  you  should  see 
me?  "  I  asked,  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  as 
I  put  the  question. 

Cruikshank  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  plate, 
whereby  I  knew  that  this  was  a  moment  when  silence 
was  expected  of  him.  I  turned  my  eyes  to  Bellwattle. 

"Well!  "said  I. 

She  drank  some  water  from  her  glass  before  she 
answered  me.  The  pause,  in  fact,  was  most 
elaborate. 

"  It 's  to  do  with  the  cottage,"  she  replied,  at  last. 

"What  cottage?" 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  311 

"  In  the  hollow.  Cruikshank  has  done  it  up,  fur- 
nished it,  with  the  idea  of  letting  it  for  the  spring 
and  summer.  Autumn,  too,  if  any  one  wanted  it. 
We  thought  you  'd  like  to  stay  there  this  summer  — 
not,  of  course,  to  our  letting  but  our  invitation. 
We  —  " 

'  You  'd  better  say  yes,"  interrupted  Cruikshank. 

"  He  need  n't  say  yes  till  he  's  seen  it,"  Bellwattle 
broke  in  again. 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  My  eyes  rested 
last  on  Bellwattle. 

"  Like  a  true  prophet,"  said  I,  "  you  're  working 
hard  to  bring  your  prophecy  true." 

"What  prophecy?" 

1  That  I  should  come  to  the  cottage  this  year. 
But  if  I  do  stay  it  won't  be  true  to  the  letter. 
There  '11  only  be  a  coloring  of  truth  in  it.  You  said 
live  there.  I  told  you  that  was  impossible." 

"Oh  —  eat  your  lunch,"  said  Cruikshank,  "and 
go  up  with  Bellwattle  afterwards.  There  's  no  com- 
pulsion for  you  to  stay  if  you  don't  like  it.  There  's 
a  bed-room  ready  for  you  here." 

"  Is  he  cross?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Do  I  look  it?  "  asked  Cruikshank. 

I  had  to  admit  that  he  did  not.  There  was  a 
twinkle  of  light  in  his  eye  the  whole  time  that  he 
was  speaking. 

It  was  soon  after  lunch  then  that  I  found  myself 
with  Bellwattle  and  Dandy  making  our  way  once 
more  up  that  old  boreen  where  they  tell  me  the 


312  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

white  hemlocks  grow  so  high  in  summer  and  the 
wild  geraniums  break,  in  patches  of  color,  the  ever 
freshening  wonder  of  the  glorious  green. 

Heavens!  What  a  rush  of  memory  it  brought, 
carrying  me  back  to  that  first  morning  when  Bell- 
wattle  had  brought  me  up  to  see  the  cottage  in  the 
hollow.  Were  they  the  same  sheep  grazing  there, 
lifting  their  heads  to  stare  at  us  as  we  swung  open 
the  same  old  gate,  whose  rusty  hinges  played  the 
very  tune  it  had  played  last  year?  Doubtless  they 
were  the  very  same.  This  crying  for  everlasting 
change  is  only  the  restless  craving  of  a  neurotic  race. 
There  is  change  enough  in  the  seasons,  change 
enough  in  the  sky  to  fulfil  every  requirement  of  my 
soul ;  only  that  I  need  another  to  note  those  changes 
with  me. 

Here  the  whole  summer,  the  whole  autumn  and 
winter  had  passed  with  every  varied  color  and  de- 
sign. The  spring  was  back  again,  and  the  whole 
world  about  us  was  the  same  once  more  as  it  had 
been  the  previous  year.  The  gulls  were  beating  up 
against  the  thrusting  wind;  the  songs  of  larks  rose 
like  glittering  bells,  trilling  and  tinkling  in  the  bright 
air  above  us.  Now  the  gorse  was  in  its  full  blazonry 
of  yellow,  and  all  the  heather  buds  shook  out  their 
music  to  each  little  breeze. 

As  my  feet  first  felt  the  yielding  turf  beneath 
them,  I  stood  still,  took  off  my  hat,  threw  back  my 
head  and  let  the  warm,  white  sun  burn  down  upon 
my  skin. 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  313 

"Oh,  my  God!"  I  muttered,  "how  wonderful 
this  is!" 

"  And  you  might  have  had  it  always,"  said  Bell- 
wattle. 

I  looked  at  her  swiftly.  There  was  more  than 
just  what  she  said.  In  the  tone  of  her  voice  I  de- 
tected a  thousand  things  to  which  my  imagination 
leapt  for  answer. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  said  I. 

"  Why  did  you  send  Clarissa  home?  "  she  asked. 

"Why?  Because  it  was  her  own  wish.  Because 
she  wanted  to  go." 

"  Never  tell  me  you  know  anything  about  women 
again,"  said  she. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  I  'd  said  anything  about 
any  woman,"  I  replied,  and  then  I  tried  hard  to 
think  where  I  had  heard  that  excellently  evasive  re- 
mark before.  For  the  moment  I  could  not  trace  it.  I 
was,  moreover,  too  interested  in  what  she  had  yet  to 
say.  "Was  n't  that  a  good  enough  reason?"  I  added. 

She  shook  her  head  as  she  smiled  at  me. 

"  Clarissa  never  wanted  to  go  home.  Do  you 
think  a  woman  ever  wants  to  leave  a  man  who  has 
treated  her  as  you  did?  " 

"  If  she  finds  him  as  repulsive  to  look  at  as  Cla- 
rissa found  me,"  said  I. 

For  a  few  steps  we  walked  without  speaking 
again.  Then  she  stopped  me  and  looked  squarely  in 
my  face.  There  was  almost  that  light  in  her  eyes 
which  I  have  seen  in  Dandy's,  which  I  remember 


314  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

having  seen  in  my  mother's.    I  felt  almost  then  as 
though  I  might  be  as  other  men  are. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  gently,  "  that  you  're 
morbid  about  —  about  —  " 

"  My  ugliness." 

"  You  can  call  it  that  if  you  like.  You  think  it 
debars  you  from  winning.  It  does  n't.  It 's  only  a 
handicap.  I  never  saw  any  one  so  easy  first  as  you 
must  have  been  with  Clarissa." 

I  gripped  her  arm  quickly.  My  fingers  must  have 
hurt  her,  for  she  just  winced  but  made  no  effort  to 
draw  away.  It  was  like  a  mother  giving  her  boy  a 
hand  to  squeeze  while  he  was  in  pain. 

"  How  do  you  know  this?  " 

"  I  guessed  it." 

"When?    How?" 

;t  When  we  went  to  see  Clarissa  at  Queenstown 
on  her  way  through." 

"You  saw  her,  then?" 

'  Yes  —  we  went  straight  off,  Cruikshank  an<3  I, 
directly  we  heard  she  was  coming." 

"And  she  told  you?" 

"No  —  I  guessed  it." 

*  Then  why  did  n't  she  stay  when  I  offered  her 
the  cottage  in  Kent?" 

1  You  offered  it  for  her  alone.  It  was  like  hitting 
her  in  the  face  when  she  knew  she  deserved  it.  -She 
had  lived  with  another  man.  You  had  nothing  better 
to  offer  her  than  that.  But  you  would  have  offered 
her  better,  would  n't  you?  " 


The  Garden  of  Resurrection  315 

"  Great  heavens,  yes !  If  I  thought  she  'd  have 
taken  it." 

"I  think  she  would,"  said  Bellwattle.  "Now 
I  'm  going  to  sit  down  here.  I  'm  tired.  You  go  on 
to  the  cottage.  Don't  stay  too  long.  Cruikshank  's 
waiting  for  us.  Go  on.  Don't  mind  me." 

I  think  I  was  glad  to  be  alone  then.  I  wanted  to 
go  back  every  step  in  my  memory  of  those  days  in 
London  and  count  if  she  were  right.  So,  retracing  it 
all,  I  came  at  last  to  the  cottage. 

The  ground  was  already  being  laid  out  for  the 
garden,  and  there  I  stood  for  some  moments  think- 
ing what  yet  might  be  possible,  if  all  that  Bellwattle 
had  said  were  true.  If  it  should  ever  be  so,  we 
would  make  that  garden  together,  Clarissa  and  I, 
remembering  with  every  seed  we  sowed,  with  every 
flower  we  tended,  that  not  one  moment  of  Life  is  to 
be  forgotten  —  that  the  whole  world,  as  was  that 
little  plot  of  ground,  is  a  garden  of  resurrection, 
where  the  seeds  of  promise  are  ever  bringing  forth 
the  flowers  of  remembrance,  whose  seed  again  is 
scattered  to  the  generous  earth  by  the  autumn  winds. 

I  made  up  my  mind  then  that  if  ever  such  content- 
ment of  Life  should  come  to  me,  I  would  make  it  a 
hobby  to  cultivate  some  new  species  of  sweet  pea. 
Of  how  these  things  are  done  I  am  as  ignorant  as 
the  babe  unborn.  Still,  in  that  moment,  I  made  the 
determination. 

"  I  will  call  it  Clarissa,"  said  I. 

Then  every  year  together  we  would  sow  the  seeds 


316  The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

of  it  afresh,  planting  in  the  mould  by  their  side 
that  little  stake  of  wood,  washed  white  with  lime, 
whereon  Clarissa's  name  should  be  inscribed.  It 
would  serve  to  help  us  to  remembrance  even  of 
death  —  the  remembrance  that  burial  is  but  the  sow- 
ing of  a  seed  in  God's  great  garden  of  resurrection. 
And  then,  if  ever  it  came  to  be  my  lot  to  see  the  small 
white  gravestone  on  which  Clarissa's  name  should  be 
engraved,  I  might  remember  the  words  of  Maeter- 
linck, "  There  are  no  dead,"  and  in  the  years  that 
followed,  myself  sow  and  look  forward  to  the  sweet 
pea  in  my  own  small  garden  and,  finding  it,  achieve 
some  understanding. 

"  All  this  shall  be,"  said  I,  "  if  what  Bellwattle 
has  said  is  true." 

Then  at  last  I  opened  the  door.  The  kitchen  had 
been  turned  into  a  sitting-room.  A  chair  was  drawn 
up  to  a  cheery  fire  before  which,  as  I  entered,  some 
one  rose  to  meet  me.  I  felt  my  heart  beat  sick  with 

joy- 
it  was  Clarissa  1 
Clarissa  in  her  gown  of  canary-colored  satin. 

i 

THE   END 


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